


We're Chasing All Those Stars

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 18/18, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Artist Harry, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, Graffiti, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prison, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Vandalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a worn denim jacket draped across the back of a plush desk chair, there are blank canvases propped against said desk, posters of bands he doesn’t know and a framed John Lennon poster hung up on the beige walls, and a large collection of vinyl records that fill up a small bookcase. But, the thing is, that the jacket isn’t Louis’, and those canvases certainly aren’t his, and neither are the posters or the records, and this isn’t his room. Or his bed.</p><p> <br/><em>Louis wakes up in the wrong bed. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an awful person with a terrible mind that won't stop working! :( 
> 
> Title of this work is a #tbt; Secrets by One Republic.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own nor am I affiliated with One Direction.

 

A Sky Full Of Stars

>>>> 

 

 

Upon waking up, there’s this brief, short moment when the mind is clean. Sure, sometimes it can be foggy, but mostly it’s clear. During that short time, the mind doesn’t remember much, can hardly remember the sins you might’ve committed the night before.  But thus, eventually you have to open your eyes.

Some people wake up drowsy, some slowly, some reenergized. This morning, Louis wakes up frozen. It comes back to him so suddenly that he can’t do anything other than still himself, become motionless as everything from last night flashes through him once again. There’s too much bare skin, Louis’ and _his_ ; there’s moans and sighs and gasps containing nothing but pleasure; there are lips, plump and thin, crimson and rose.

His eyes blink against the high ceiling slowly, watching as the sun catches a mirror and fills the room with nothing but pure light. There’s a worn denim jacket draped across the back of a plush desk chair, there are blank canvases propped against the said desk, posters of bands he doesn’t know and a framed John Lennon poster hung up on the beige walls, and a large collection of vinyl records that fill up a small bookcase. But, the thing is, that the jacket isn’t Louis’, and those canvases certainly aren’t his, and neither are the posters or the records, and this isn’t his room. Or his bed.

The images hit him like a lorry, and like a car crash, he can’t look away, can’t get it out of his mind. They’re slow and they linger, and the worst thing is that Louis isn’t sure if he feels aroused or guilty, or both. Guilty, definitely guilty. Last night wasn’t supposed to happen—not last night, not ever. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out into the quiet. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

The body besides him slowly shifts, moving until he’s sitting up, still silent. Body heat is quickly removed from Louis’ side, and he doesn’t want to miss it, but he does. He’s cold all the sudden, even underneath warm, white sheets and a duvet. He feels exposed, even, although he’s covered.

 Louis rolls onto his side with caution, peeking up at him. He watches as the boy rubs at his eyes in a way that shouldn’t be so endearing, elbows resting on his knees, long limbs barely covered by the sheets, body that Louis was only so eager to touch last night. Besides everything, besides the guilt eating at him, he still wants to run his hands over that defined stomach and thick, tattooed arms, run his fingers across the sharp curves of his collarbones. He doesn’t smile down at Louis when their eyes meet.

Louis sits up then, letting the fabric slid down to pool at his lap, exposing his bare chest. It doesn’t even matter; he had the boy’s _tongue_ in him last night, what’s a bit of chest and stomach? Minuets past in silence, and he flinches as his back touches the cool surface of the white brick behind him. The light is still pouring in, highlighting the boy beside him, bright sun giving highlight to his curls, setting on his sharp jaw, casting shadows on his eyelashes. Louis has to look away.

He tries to think, to think of something other than last night, something other then the smile he didn’t receive or the words that haven’t been spoken—words that may _never_ be spoken. He tries to think of something other than the way he felt last night, the way his body burned from the tips of his toes to the ends of his eyelashes, the way his body hummed and buzzed and plead for more, for _him_. He’d never felt that way before.

He tries to bring himself back to present, focus on the fact that he has a footy game tonight and his uniform is still hung up in his closet back home, he has to put some petrol in his auto, and there’s that maths test he didn’t study for that he has, too. There’s also the fact that he fucked Harry Styles. That Harry Styles, with his big, blown, green eyes and pouty lips, looked down at him as he fucked into Louis, pinned his wrists above his head, made him scream his name over and over again. That Louis held his strong jaw in his hands, fingers grasping strands of curly hair, as he rode him slowly the second time, noses touching, mouths breathing into each other. The way their lips moved smoothly, slowly with fervour and expertise, synchronized and— _no_.

He can’t keep thinking about it, about last night. Last night should’ve never happened, they both know that. Harry knows that, too, right? Is that why he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t smiled at him like he did last night, with his deep dimples and white teeth? It doesn’t matter anyway, what Harry thinks or knows, what happened last night, it doesn’t matter at all.

Louis slides to the edge of the bed, bending over to pick up forgotten jeans of the floor. He jumps in them, bouncing a bit to squeeze his arse into them. His shirt is thrown absentmindedly across the room, and with a heavy conscience and a set of eyes following him, he throws it on and stuffs his pants to the bottom of his backpack. He finds his Vans sat across from the bed, so he slips them on and takes a deep breath, turning to face Harry again, who is looking out the window with an unimpressed expression settled in his features.

“Look,” Louis starts, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Uh, I—,” he doesn’t know what to say. _I_ what, exactly? What is there to say? _Do_ they have to speak the obvious? They fucked and that’s it. That’s it, right? “I...”

Harry turns to meet his gaze, and Louis instantly flushes. His hair is getting long now, longer than he’s ever seen it, curls reaching his shoulder blades, and he looks beautiful. Louis’ heard him say that he doesn’t care about cutting it, that he might just let it flow forever. He’d look beautiful anyway, is the truth.

The first time Louis ever saw him was in year ten, when he had a cherubic little face and tight, short Shirley Temple curls. Back then, he didn’t have the small crucifix that hangs off his neck, the one that belongs to his father.  Harry told him that, about pendant, when he placed open-mouth kisses on his body, cool silver sliding across the panels of Louis’ chest and abdomen, some of the few words exchanged between the two.

“Are you going to tell him?” Harry asks, breaking his silence, eyes piercing. His voice is low, like usual, and rough with drowsiness, and Louis wants to haul them both back underneath the covers, and forget that he already belongs to someone else.

Louis can only shrug. “I don’t know,” he admits.  His heart doesn’t clench when Harry only turns back to the window.  The sheets beneath the boy’s body are tangled and in much need of a wash, and his hair is a mess, too, from where Louis tangled his fingers in and wouldn’t let go. He can still smell Harry’s sweet, vanilla scent and white cotton laundry detergent on his own skin. Harry’s room is surprisingly neat, something he hadn’t expected, but there’s paints—water, oil, even messy cases of pastels— and sketch books covering every flat surface, even one balanced on top of a small globe on his desk. 

Louis wishes he didn’t have to leave. He wishes he could get undress and jump back onto the bed and wrap his legs around Harry’s own, sneak his cold feet underneath his calves, pull his neck down until he can comfortably reach his lips, and kiss him so hard and with so much zeal that it leaves the younger boy panting, until it starts something else. He wishes he could wake up with Harry wrapped around him, hard dick pressed up against his bum, soft breathes blowing into the back of his neck every day.

But you can’t always get what you want, and Harry isn’t someone that Louis—or anyone else for that matter—can ‘get’. Harry Styles doesn’t belong to anyone.

“I have to go now,” Louis states quietly, hoping for some small act, just a movement, that shows the curly-haired lad is paying attentions, cares even the minuscule amount, but he doesn’t get a reaction. Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give any indication that he’s even listening, so Louis turns around and picks up his bag from the floor again, shouldering it, and walks out the door as quietly as possible.

Outside, he starts to feel the after effect multiple rounds of sex can have on his bum, sore.  He usually reels in the feeling, loves having a little reminder throughout the day, but he’s not sure if he likes it, likes have Harry following him for the rest of his day. It’s bad enough he can still feel the cool material from his crucifix and the warm pillowed feeling of his lips between his thighs. 

Everything, all of it, makes him want to throw up, acid pooling in the pit of his stomach, blubbering and ready to come back up. Everything, _all of it_ , makes him want to rewind the time and press play, live it all over again; he would do it again in a heartbeat. He doesn’t know what’s worse.

At home, Louis gets ready for another day of school. Like always, he wears his football jersey, nice and loose on his body for before it used to fit snugly. It looks perfect, either way, the red and white colour standing proud. His hair is left down in his usual fringe, no need for a quiff that will fall down later with movement.

He picks up his bag and stands in front of wall mirror, searching for any damning evidence of his actions hours earlier, searching for a trace that will betray what his words will say. There isn’t anything there, though, just his eyes, which are dull, and his mouth, still a bit swollen, but other than that—there’s nothing. Just the same old, sad Louis Tomlinson; no one will notice anything, they never do.

>>>> 

Drew wasn’t always such an arsehole. In year ten he gave Louis a big bushel of red roses and a white teddy bigger than Louis’ person; right in front of all those knobs he calls his mates, not caring when they called him a fag or laughed. He used to try and write these awful, sappy songs for Louis, or request Michael Buble on the radio, and make him listen together while on the phone. The first time they had sex—their first time with anyone—he held Louis close and mumbled nonsense about love.

Now, as Louis watches him, he hopes that romantic, sweet boy is still there, somewhere underneath leather jackets and ripped plaid, under thick layers of bravado and testosterone. Drew sits like, well, like a manly-man, with his legs splayed open and his arm thrown over the back of Louis’ chair is nothing but possessiveness. His whole person is charged with energy and confrontation, blunt and in your face.  Drew is telling a joke or something Louis can’t be bothered with, any everyone sitting at their table—all his dick mates with no future ahead of them and dirty hair—roar with laughter, high-fiving each other.

Louis can’t find it in himself to even crack a smile. He’s over it, the whole ordeal that comes with his boyfriend, has grown to hate it, but for some reason, he still chooses to do it over and over again each day. He _chooses_ , of course. No one is forcing Louis to stay with Drew, and listen to his friends talk mad shit he can never understand, he chooses to be with Drew, who loves him even if he doesn’t show it as often anymore. And that’s why the guilt deepens, triples inside of him.

Louis can’t help but watch him as he talks, but never listens to him speak. There used to be a time where he would hang off Drew’s every word, back when he thought Drew had interesting things to say; not so much, nowadays. He can’t blame his boyfriend, though, not really; Drew never has had to work for anything in his young life, has always had everything come easy to him, as it usually does with money and power and beauty. He’s still so handsome, and his blue eyes still make Louis’ heart stutter after everything, but he can’t help miss the lanky kid who wore pink polos and tan chinos.

Drew meets Louis’ eyes and frowns, probably sensed the stare on the side of his face. Can he see how dazed Louis is? Can he tell there’s so much on his mind, that he’s been unhappy lately, how he can’t concentrate on anything? Drew only smiles back, and _no_ , he can’t tell, then.

“Tonight, me and you, baby?” Drew places a hand on Louis’ jean-clad thigh. His smile is too bright. “The girls and your mum are gone for the weekend, right?”

Louis can’t help but keeps his eyes down as the brunet presses small pecks to the side of his neck, staring down at the hand gripping his leg. Can Drew taste Harry on him? Can he smell the betrayal?

His mobile vibrates on the hard surface of the table and Drew drops his arm around his chair and pulls away, annoyed. He gestures at the phone, like he’s saying it’s okay for Louis to check it, like he’s giving his permission, and it settles wrong in his stomach. When did that start, when did he need someone’s permission to do something? He wishes he could remember, but mostly wishes he could’ve never noticed it in the first place.

Louis stands, “It’s just Zayn,” and doesn’t elaborate any further. He feels Drew’s cold hands slide up the back of his thighs, stopping at the crease where his bum begins to form, and squeezes.  Louis bends down to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s awaiting lips, but has no reassurance their lips meet: he can’t feel anything.

 

Zayn is leaning against the locker next to his when Louis finally gets there, a few minuets later. He has black Beats hanging around his neck, a red, plaid shirt wrapped around his waist, his heavy boot-clad feet tapping on the linoleum. He grins when he sees Louis approaching. “Lou! Where were you, man? I was waiting for you out in the car lot, was gonna save you a smoke, too.”

Louis shrugs and opens his locker, startled to see the picture of him and Drew tapped to the side, even though it’s been there since last year. “You know I don’t smoke on game days.”

Zayn squints his honey-gold eyes at him, “What’s up with you? You look weird.” His eyes are blown, like usual, but Louis doesn’t know what he might be on today. It’s something different everyday, now.

“It’s nothing,” Louis lies. If there’s anyone he would trust with his life, it’s Zayn Malik. Zayn is his best mate, his partner in crime since year eight, of course he can tell him anything, but—but not this, not now, maybe not ever. Zayn’s also good friends with Harry Styles, who also loves art and tattoos, and things Louis doesn’t really understand. Besides, talking about _it_ means it actually happened, and that’s what he’s trying to avoid. It never happened.

Zayn doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push the subject even though he knows Louis is lying, and the latter is thankful. “Party tonight, then?” he asks instead, still watching him closely, boot scuffing the waxed floors.

It’s the same thing that happens every time Louis makes the mistake of informing Drew his family is going out of town. Naturally, Drew offered up his house for the after-game party. Louis sighs and leans back against his locker, “Yep. You’ll bring something, right? I don’t think I’ll be able to go through all that shit without a few hits.”

Zayn raises his brows. “You’re even more emo today than usual.”

It’s true. He’s been stuck in this rut for months now, sleepwalking everywhere he goes. He’s not sure how he got this way, or why, or when it’ll go away. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much that his closest mates, his own damn boyfriend, can’t even notice. Everything in the world goes on, even when his comes to a painful halt.

Zayn stares at him a little while longer with his appraising, dilated honey brown eyes, and then nods to himself. “Here,” he pulls his bag off his shoulders and takes a quick look around before opening it. His hands work in the bag, doing something Louis can’t see, but soon enough he’s pulling out a hand and forming a fist. “Lou _is_ ,” he singsongs, “It’ll make you not care, relax some. I know you, Lou, c’mon.”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. He has a game tonight, he’s the captain. He has to perform at his ultimate best and set an example for his players. He’s still at school, for fuck’s sakes, that’s dangerous. What if someone sees them? What if someone rats him out and he gets in trouble, or much worse, get kicked off the team?  He’s the _captain_.

But he’s also a cheater.

He narrows his eyes then, but nods, sticking his tongue out. He watches as Zayn’s grin widens and he places a dainty white pill on the tip of his tongue. “Thanks, Z.”

An emotion Louis doesn’t have a name for passes of his best mate’s face, and the dark-haired boy frowns, pushing back at Louis’ fringe. “Are you sure you’re okay, Lou?”

Louis can only nod, for the twentieth time. 

 

Zayn’s right, like usual, and whatever he gave him makes him forget everything but the plays for the game. He rides throughout the school day and plays a great game, scoring two decent goals. He even manages to give a big smile at Drew, who watches with a proud beam on the sidelines. Unfortunately, by the time people start showing up at his house by the dozens, the magical feeling is gone, and it’s back to square one, to feeling rotten and guilty and numb.

Liam mans the bar, excited about what he’s learned after his summer spent in London. He mixes Louis something hard and bitter, with only a few drops of coke and too much alcohol, but he promises it’ll get him _faded and shit_ , and Louis accepts.

People begin to crowd around in the living room, laughing and drinking, but it’s still early, the night is young, and soon you won’t be able to breath without inhaling someone’s hair or sloshing a drink over someone’s back. The backyard doesn’t get crowded until midnight, when it becomes to hot inside, and people want to jump into the pool or warm up in the hot tub. It’s getting cold soon, autumn beginning, and it might be the last party with the open pool. Faces come up to Louis, to congratulate him, to say hi to Drew, who won’t leave his side.

It’s after midnight when Zayn finally wanders in, dressed in the same thing as earlier in the day, but with the plaid jacket on instead of wrapped around his waist. He leans over the bar to look at the bottles of alcohol, and Liam just leans back against the wall, watching him with his arms over his chest. Once again, it’s like a car wreck, and Louis can’t look away.

It all goes back to last year, when Zayn got high of his rocket, and somehow ended up in Liam Payne’s bed. It didn’t surprise Louis to hear his best mate ended up with someone, but Liam? No one even knew Li was into dick, not even Zayn himself. Louis knows that Zayn wasn’t as high as he pretended to be, but they never talk about that, just like how they don’t talk about this thing Louis is going through. It’s just what they do, and it works.

Liam really likes him, is the problem. He hasn’t made a move and Zayn’s mantra is that he doesn’t date football players, likes bad boys, boys like Harry. Zayn is one of the few that laughs at their school’s social hierarchy, in fact, if he and Louis hadn’t met before the latter proudly started playing footy, they probably wouldn’t have spoken a single word to each other.

“Something with Jack, please, Mr. Bartender-man,” Zayn laughs at himself, barely sparring a glance at Liam before going over to Perrie Edwards. Liam mixes the drink with a small smile on his face, eyes crinkly, and if he looks up and catches Louis staring at him, he only ducks his head, but keeps on smiling.

Louis’ eyes move around the crowd outside, watching as some girls fling their tops off at the boys before diving into the pool. He freezes, however, when he sees that Harry is one of those boys, throwing the bikini top back into the pool at its rightful owner. He quickly glances back at Drew, who’s talking to a group of years twelve, but other than the fact that his hand is still grabbing onto Louis’ arse, he doesn’t seem to remember that Louis is actually there.

Zayn is sitting with Harry now, with his whiskey mix in one hand, and while Louis isn’t surprised to see them together, the younger boy hardly ever comes to his parties even when Zayn does. He wants to ignore the small, tiny disgusting part of himself that hopes Harry is there because of him, to see him.

Throughout the next hour, his eyes flit back to Harry and his mate, watching them laugh together over numerous drinks, but focusing mostly on the curly-haired boy. He’s wearing a simple, cotton tee underneath a plaid shirt unbutton almost to his abdomen, and a pair of black, worn, tight skinny jeans. He looks perfect.

Harry Styles has always had this chill, cool effect about him, something natural. Unlike Drew, who’s thought about an outfit for more than an hour only to pick something similar as the day before, Harry doesn’t seem to think it over too much, looks bad and calm effortlessly. He’s obviously, incredibly attractive, his beauty one of kind. He’s not like Zayn, whose beauty could slap you right in the face, no, Harry’s is more natural, smooth, something you can see everyday but still marvel over; stunning with his bright eyes and dark lips. He’s attractive in a way that makes heads turn, and has boys and girls alike lick at their lips to quench their thirst, but the boy has never had an interest for dating, or maybe just doesn’t find anyone at their school attractive.

With that being said, there are always rumours about Harry Styles. He has lots of friends, girls and boys, and if it wasn’t for Zayn, Louis would still think he was bi-sexual, still think he hooked up with Cara and Caroline and the other girls, not just all the other, much older, boys. There have been many times he’s heard Harry called a womanizer or a manwhore, nasty things like that. Zayn always tells Louis the opposite, but if he hadn’t, maybe Louis would’ve believed everything like the other pathetic losers.

Everyone’s always said how great of a lay Harry is, but of course you always hear it from the people who’ve never even spoken to the boy. But now, Louis knows, and fuck, it’s true. He flushes just thinking about it, thinking about the way Harry moves his body when he’s focused, when he has a goal in mind, and it drives him crazy. He’s sexually charged, Harry is, but in a much different way than Drew; subtle, lazy, determined, confident.

Louis’ body aches in want. He wants, most of all, to go over there to Zayn and Harry, sit on Zayn’s lap and smoke a joint or two, and just talk. Just watch Harry. Hear Harry speak, because _he_ deserves rapt listening to. He and Harry haven’t spoken much in the last few years, mostly because of the fact that Drew despises him. They were all friends before sixth form, but now only Zayn and Harry have stayed close.

The fact that Zayn is Louis’ best mate has no effect on Harry; hasn’t endeared him to the boy with the exception of last night, and even then it wasn’t exactly—tender. Harry certainly didn’t seduce him with romance, or anything gushy like that. He didn’t even seduce him at all.

Louis had taken a few steps forward, until their chests met, and looked up. Harry’s eyes glanced from Louis’ down to his lips and back up again, and it was simple, in actuality. It was all him. It was _Louis_ who grabbed an angry fistful of his v-neck and pulled him down, it was _Louis_ that pressed his lips against plump ones, all him. He was the one who made the first move, it was his entire fault.

He drowns down yet another shot, eyes still glued to Harry’s tall form. His throat burns, and so does his chest, noticing that the boy in his sight hasn’t even glanced over to him once. He fights the feeling of rejection, but it lingers, burning everything it touches.

Someone Louis doesn’t know hands Harry a flask and he takes a lengthy gulp of it, before handing it of to a scantly-dressed girl, who’s trying too hard to make an impression, sputtering and coughing dramatically. Harry laughs, then, gently, and mockingly pouts at her, saying something to her that takes the surly look off her face and replacing it with a hopeful grin.

Maybe he finally senses Louis’ eyes on him, because Harry turns around to meet his gaze, and the former manages a meek smile. His heart lurches, however, when Harry narrows his eyes in what must be the mellowest glare ever, and turns back to his crowd. Right, they’re not friends, they don’t send each other smiles; Harry’s never wanted anything to do with him, so why start now?

Liam nudges him with his elbow then, giving him pity-filled brown eyes, and it’s then that Louis realizes the football player was also watching the interaction. He gladly takes the shot in his hand, throwing it back with haste. Liam smiles uncomfortably, glancing at Drew who’s not paying them any attention, and shrugs.

 

He’s standing in an empty kitchen hours later, everyone still outside and enjoying themselves. He’s supposed to be out there, too, like a good host, sitting besides his boyfriend, thanking everyone for their compliments on the game tonight. With the windows all closed, he can almost pretend there isn’t a party outside, that there still isn’t a few lingering couples making out on his sofas, that he’s all alone.

The back door opens and party ruins any of his illusions, before the door slams shut. Louis can hear Zayn, voice slurred, clearly drunk, talking vividly about the snake he just got done on his shoulder.

“Not feeling social tonight, are we?” He asks as he passes directly past Louis and digs deep in the fridge, pulling out a beer. Harry walks in, stopping short, and the smile on his face drops rapidly when he sees him. His green eyes flick towards Zayn, before glancing back down to the floor, leaning against the counter.

Zayn swallows and puts the bottle down. “Gotta take a piss. Both of you play nice now, ya hear?” he quirks an eyebrows at Louis before he’s pushing past him again. Awesome.

“How do you stand it?” Harry speaks up, startling Louis.

It takes a few and Louis following his eyes to fully understand what he means. He’s staring out the window, at the party in full swing, people yelling at each other over the loud dubstep playing, grinding, stumbling, drinks sloshing. In the muted silence of the kitchen, with only a few murmurs in the living room, the view looks worse, pathetic, even.

Louis rather prefers looking at Harry instead, so he does. He studies his profile, this lean, long nose and his chiselled jaw. He’s undeniably handsome, no, beautiful, even more so than Drew, who Louis once used to joke about being better than Beckham. Louis thinks about Harry’s eyes and what they look like when they’re so close, so close that his eyelash brush up against his cheeks, and how sweet and salty he tasted on his tongue, and how Louis made him groan, and moan, and beg for more.

Harry opens his mouth and snaps it shut again, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t at the last minuet. He goes to turn around and Louis doesn’t think twice before stopping him. “Harry, wait.” Harry does turn, but looks down, avoiding his eyes, and Louis pauses before setting down his glass of water and stepping forward, still far enough that they don’t touch.

“I know last night—and, I know you don’t... But—aside from what happened last night—?” Louis can’t get his words in order, struggling to form the correct sentences in his mind. “Why do you hate me?” he blurts.

Harry’s eyes are vivid when he looks up, and Louis has to stop himself from cowering back. His jaw is clenched and he doesn’t answer right away, just stares back at the older boy with intensity. “It’s all fake,” he replies simply. “’Cause it’s all fake.”

 _Fake_. Louis’ fake, that’s clearly what he means.

“Then why are you even here? Why did you bother coming?”

He takes his time answering and they stare at each other like former friends shouldn’t do, like people hiding secrets do, guilty and sad on one part, angry on the other. “Free drinks.”  He walks away from Louis and heads straight out with no problem, and the football player doesn’t want to think about how difficult it was for him to walk out the door this morning.

 

There is more vodka waiting for him back outside. One drink, two drinks, three drinks, and more, until his vision becomes blurry and his laugh becomes hollow. Zayn slips something blue and oval into his palm and Louis doesn’t hesitate before swallowing it back. He doesn’t look over at Harry anymore, doesn’t waste his time doing that, because the boy made himself clear; he wants nothing to do with Louis. Instead, he smiles as wide as he can and talks with people he’s known his whole life, and that’s it—void and phony and not worth anything.

 

By the time the house is empty and Drew is dragging him up the stairs, Louis feels like he’s on top of the world, able to do anything. Drew kisses him like normally and wraps his arms around his waist, and for a second Louis feels safe and loved and _okay_ , but the illusion is shattered the moment his boyfriend speaks.

“You looked so fucking fit all night,” the brunet growls into his ear, slipping his hands down his back until they’re steady and tight on Louis’ bum. “Want you, _need_ you.” The boy is yanking off his leather jacket and throwing it to the side, hurriedly unbuttoning his jeans, and then he pauses when he sees that Louis is only standing there, watching him with wide eyes. “Get undressed, yeah? What are you waiting for?”

Louis does as he’s told, pulling down his jeans along with his pants, and he can do nothing but close his eyes when Drew finally touches him, hands so cold, and turns him around to bend him over. There’s a rustling sound and the _snap_ of a tube being open, and he tries not to cry when his boyfriend enters a finger in him.

His mind, inconveniently, flashes to his parents, away for the weekend, disappointment and malice that can’t ever be solved with diamonds or luxury holidays. His younger sisters, the smaller ones who can’t leave the house in the middle of the night when Jay and Mark fight, and—and that’s not what Louis wants. _How do you stand it?_

“Stop.”

“What?”

Louis turns, wincing at the feeling of Drew’s fingers tugging on his rim, pulling them out. “I can’t do this.”

“What?” he deadpans. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Are you—are you not clean?” Drew looks down at his fingers in mild disgust, “We can go shower, clean you right up. I know how you love a little shower action.”

“No,” he repeats. He pulls his pants up as soon as he can.

Drew pulls back, exasperated now, and flops onto the bed, staring at him. “What the fuck, Lou? All you do is walk around like a—like a fucking zombie, something off the _Walking Dead_. He jumps back off the bed and pulls on his pants and jeans. When his eyes meet Louis, the latter can tell he’s hurt, that his pride is wounded, and for a second there Louis is fifteen again and Drew is fourteen, and he is all he has.

But...But they aren’t dumb, silly teenagers anymore and—and Drew _isn’t_ all he has, not anymore. 

His head starts throbbing, like a hangover come early, and he covers his eyes, trying to wipe the tears threatening to escape with the back of his hands.

“Fuck,” Drew mumbles and makes his way over to stand in front of the smaller boy. He takes Louis’ face in his hands and tries to meet his eyes, but the boy can only look anywhere but at him. “Baby, Lou, babe, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean it, you know that. What’s going on with you, huh, what’s the matter? Did someone hurt you, Lou, did they?”

He hesitates before wrapping his arms around Louis and pulling him to his chest, and Louis only remembers how much he both loves and hate that, loves his protection, but hates his possession. He hates feeling like a child in his arms, hates that they’re not equal. He hates that although he’s the football star, Drew gets the recognition, the credit, as if he has _everything_ to do with Louis’ success.

It’s then that he knows it’s not the right time and that he’s afraid, but _fuck_ , it will _never_ be the right time and when will Louis stop being such a damn coward? He has to, he can’t—he can’t keep this from him forever, he must say something, he can’t—

“I slept with someone else.”  

 


	2. Declarations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything in _italics ___is a flashback.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left a great response to this story, has put kudos, subscribed, or bookmarked! It means a lot. Enjoy!

* * *

 

We’re Chasing All Those Stars

 

>>>> 

 

After it all, Louis stays in bed for most of the weekend. He turns his mobile off and Zayn comes by with a few joints, ready to spend the rest of the weekend eating take-out and playing video games. It’s fine, really, Zayn makes it okay. Zayn helps him forget, and prepares his tea just how he likes it, and cuddles him at night. Louis drags himself to college on Monday morning and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He wants to crawl back under his covers and pretend he didn’t open his mouth, pretend none of this ever happened, but he can’t. 

He doesn’t remember that night a few months back, it seemed so silly and small and sweet. He and Drew watched a movie at his house—away from Louis’ pesky little sisters, away from his arguing parents, away from it all—and he didn’t stop Drew when he pulled out his iPhone, pulling up the camera app. He didn’t think much of it, wanted it, really, _liked_ it; it made him feel good, pleasing Drew like that. He never thought his ex-boyfriend would use it as some sort of sick revenge.

But the picture is there, taped to his locker, blown up and in colour. It’s a bit blurry, pixels too large, but clear, too clear, obvious. You can tell it’s him, and you can see the cock in his mouth perfectly, and Louis can’t move. He’s frozen like the morning he woke up next to Harry, frozen like when Harry left him again in the kitchen. He stunned and it’s getting harder to catch his breath as more people walk behind him, snickering and whispering and laughing.

He tries not to let the word _slut_ get to him. He’s not a slut, right? He’s _not_. He was with Drew for _years_ and he makes one mistake and—he’s not a slut.

He finds himself irrationally angry with Zayn, who’s nowhere to be seen. The thin boy is probably still in the car lot, smoking his third cigarette of the day, but Louis needs him, and he needs him _here_ with him. He would joke about it, say something about what a nice mouth Louis has or maybe call out Drew for having a small dick, pull the picture down, and hold his hand as they make their way to his car, ditching. But Zayn’s not here and Louis is alone, frozen, as his peers laugh behind his back.

There’s a collective gasp down the corridor and when Louis turns, he sees Drew and his posse, he sees red. He’s walking calmly, his lips tweaked up in a smile, sauntering with his group of arseholes behind him, like he’s the king and the school is his palace. Like he didn’t just release a picture of them, something that was once so private and cherished, something that made Louis feel good about himself, secure. Liam nudges his side with a crestfallen expression, but Drew has already seen him.

Louis takes everything—the fury, the melancholy, the humiliation—and channels it into the swing of his fist, but it’s not good enough. His fingers aches and Drew is holding onto his chin with a scowl, but it’s nothing, it repairs nothing. Louis pushes on his chest as hard as he can, and he might be smaller than Drew, but the latter out of all people should know he’s not weak. He goes to hit him again, but there are burly arms holding him back—Liam—and his feet leave the ground.

“Take that shit down,” Zayn commands from somewhere in the hallway, and Louis is backing up as fast as he can, away from Drew as soon as possible. He can’t be around him, can’t breath near him. Their eyes meet—blue and blue, something that Louis once found so cute—and he finds remorse there, just for a few seconds, but that’s enough to make him burst into tears.

 

He doesn’t go back for three days. Jay and Mark Tomlinson threaten to take legal action against Drew, or the school board, _anyone_ , but there’s not much they can do, idle threats. Both boys are at the age of consent, and it’s nothing too dramatic for his parents to cut their holiday short. Luckily for Louis, he has Zayn who stays with him during the night and acts like his chemist.

Everything, all of it, is hell. He’s being theatrical, and Zayn tells him in a few months he might even look back at this and laugh, which is probably true, but right now Louis doesn’t want anything more than to move to fucking Mars or erase himself and make someone new, someone clean.  The image doesn’t reappear anywhere around the college, but it might as well still be up there. He just knows Upper Sixth will be tainted with that image, like it’s tattooed on his skin forever; the image of his lips open so wide and full, eyes looking up with desire.

The way his peers look at him once he comes back to school—with pity and distaste and lust, of all things—makes him feel raw inside. He still shows up, however, holds his head high, cracks jokes with Zayn, and tries to keep the tears at bay. People are people, and they’re still cruel and make snide comments as he passes by—like putting phallic-shaped objects in their mouths while pretending to choke, or making gagging noises as he walks by—but he tries to not let it get to him, not worth fighting over.

 Eventually it’s too much, and Louis has no problem quitting the football club and deleting his Twitter, putting his barely-used Instagram on private. Everything happens so suddenly, and he finds himself at the bottom of the food chain when he used to rank so high. He’s no longer Louis Tomlinson: The Football Star, but Louis Tomlinson, who cheated on Drew Miller. He still has friends, of course he does, but it’s different now, and that change is infiltrated in everything he does, constantly reminding him of what he’s lost.

Drew tells everyone Louis cheated, which. Maybe that’s fair. But, he also sent that picture to his group of cronies two days after their breakup, all of who had no problem spreading the image around the school.  It only takes a few weeks to find some new boy toy to fit underneath his arm, some boy from Lower Sixth named Nathan, who has never been discreet on his enamour with Drew. Nathan slips so seamlessly underneath Drew’s arm, where Louis used to love to be.

He sometimes finds Drew starring at him, and once, at three in the morning, sent him a text reading _I miss you_. Louis never showed it to anyone, quickly deleting it, and didn’t tell anyone—not even Zayn, especially not Zayn—that he felt the same way, too.

They went from 100 to zero in the short time span that it took Louis to mutter those five words. From everything to nothing so quickly, and as far Louis can tell, those will be their last words.

He avoids Harry, but that comes easily. According to Harry Styles, Louis doesn’t exist, which mutually burns and pleases him, now he won’t have to go out of his way to dodge him. The lad acts as though they’ve never met, never talked, never fucked, and _fine_ , it’s fine. Louis can only wonder if Harry thinks about him as often as Louis thinks about _him_.

>>>> 

“I was at—I was at the skate park, our park, y’know?”

Zayn only nods with furrowed eyebrows and lights the joint in his hand. They’re sitting outside of Louis’ room, on his tiny balcony, wrapped up in Marvel blankets, legs intertwined on the small, outdoors sofa-bed. Zayn tilts his head, “And?”

Zayn hasn’t asked about Harry or whatever the fuck happened between them, and Louis can only assume Harry hasn’t said a thing, either. Louis just wants—he _needs_ tell someone, Zayn, about that night, about what happened, he needs to say something to lift the weight of his shoulders. He needs to confess about it all just once; the need to make it _real_ is overwhelming.

Louis takes the joint from his mate and inhales, feeling his body loosen up as the dark, heavy smokes travels through his body, relaxing him. He exhales after that, watching as smoke gets blown away by a sudden gust of wind. “I had just gotten there, but he was sitting on the pavement watching God knows what, and like the polite man that I am, I said hi. He did that thing, you know, where he only like, nods at you?”

Zayn snorts and attempts at a smoke ring. “Sure.”

“You know me, always looking for a time to show off. So tried to do my kickflip, and, uh, my landing was all shit and I fell on my arse.”

Zayn throws his head back and laughs heartily at that. “You _fell_? You haven’t fallen with a damn kickflip in years, Lou.”

“That’s not the point,” Louis mumbles underneath his breath, reaching out for the joint. “I looked over and Harry was laughing at me. But not in a cruel way, but in that way where his eyes get all smiley, and his dimples peep out, but he’s not making too much noise, and he doesn’t—“

“Yes,” Zayn affirms with an eye roll, “I have seen him laugh before, Lou, believe it or not. He and I _are_ friends.”

Louis waves him off. “Anyway, he laughed at me. So I called him a wanker under my breath.” Zayn only raises an eyebrow at that. “Okay, _fine_ , I may have not said it under my breath, he heard me. But then...”

_“Dick.”_

_He is looking at the ground when Louis glances up, still sitting on his arse after his mildly painful fall. Louis doesn’t hesitate before picking himself up and brushing the dirt of his bum, picking up his board and making a beeline towards the curly-locked boy. “Pardon? I didn’t quite catch that, pal?” he looks up at Harry, hating how small he feels besides him._

_Harry shifts uncomfortably, gaze settled on the concrete, rolling his own board underneath a foot. There’s a blond boy beside him, with lilac tint in his hair and stretched ears, and a deep laugh._

_“Damn, Haz, what mess did you get yourself into?” The blond asks in amusement, Irish accent thick. “Who’s this?”_

_“No one,” Harry says, nodding towards the ramps. His friends laugh and get the point, shuffling towards the ramps with their skateboards tucked underneath their arms. He leans back against the metal fence and finally looked up to meet Louis’ eyes._

_That makes Louis breath catch, and hell, he hasn’t paid attention to Harry Styles in years, and his grown, chiselled face catches him off guard. The intensity of his gaze, the pale smoothness of his skin, the bright green, the anger—it all catches him off guard. The lust, though, it’s the lust that made Louis’ heart stutter, like a drum beating off-beat._

_His words echo through Louis’ mind:_ No one.

_“Fuck you,” Louis whispers, but there isn’t any fire behind those words. Maybe it’s because he knows Harry is in the right; no one._

_Harry moves his slow gaze down to his lips and back up, and that’s when Louis knows and looses all control. He pushes himself forwards until his chest is pressed up against Harry’s, not knowing what he’s doing, not even hesitating. He fists at Harry’s white shirt and pulls him down, and soon enough there is a red, plump lip between his._

“Okay, I think I get it,” Zayn eyes are humoured. “You sound like Lottie when she’s reading those things to Fiz, those—what are those things called? Those stories?”

“Fanflicks, I think.”

“Mhm,” his mate nods, exhaling slowly. “You know, Harry lives like, ten minuets from here.”

Louis doesn’t bother replying to that. He looks up at the dark sky, watching as the stars high above twinkle. He loves that about living in the suburbs, being able to watch the stars at night from his terrace. In the city, with all the tall, towering buildings, the stars can hardly be seen. He turns to Zayn, who’s also looking up, but with a sceptical expression.

“Z, what?”

“It’s just—I don’t know, it just doesn’t sound like you, Lou. None of this,” Zayn licks his lips. “It’s not a bad thing, of course not—it’s good, yeah? Different. New, independent, ballsy Tomlinson. Sounds more like the old you.”

Louis laughs at that. “Yes, I _am_ a role model for strong, independent women everywhere.” His smile quickly slides off when he remembers something else. “Harry—he won’t look at me. Probably thinks I’m a whore, right? But I know I’m not completely mad, Z, there was something there, between the two of us that night.”

“Oh God,” Zayn groans, “It’s like I’m watching one of those movies Doniya always forces on us. Except I’m _in_ it.”

Louis flips him off and continues. “Drew never made me feel like that, not once. Fuck, I sound like such a pussy. With Harry, it hurt too be so close, but it’s like he wanted to be even closer, despite everything. Drew never—he never fucking looked at me—not during sex, not ever—like Harry did. What does that even mean?”

Zayn takes the joint from him and gives him a look. “Did you ask him?”

“Ask him what?”

“How he feels, you idiot, what bloody else?”

It’s such a simple idea, that it almost feels impossible, out of reach. He croaks out a laugh, a sound not convincing in the slightest. “I can’t do that, mate. He acts like I don’t even exist.” He lets himself fall back on the sofa-bed.

Zayn lies down next to him and sighs, turning to face him. “D’you remember that nasty, black eye Drew got in year ten? Right after he asked you to—to what? What did we call it?”

“When he asked me to go out,” Louis clarifies with a frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you remember or not?”

“Yeah, ‘course, his brother gav—“

“Harry did that,” Zayn states with an expecting expression.

“What, why?” Louis feels his mate’s shoulder shrug.

“Dunno, but I’ll bet my dick it had to do with your pretty arse.”

Louis doesn’t know what to do with that new information. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Zayn turns back to the ceiling. “Harry asked me not to say anything, so. I didn’t.”

Louis breathes out, “But why would Drew lie about something like that?” His best mate only makes a noise and laughs, but Louis truly doesn’t understand it. There’s no reason for his ex-boyfriend to lie about something so stupid. He’s broken out of his thoughts when his stomach rumbles loudly and Zayn knocks his shoulder into him, laughing.

>>>> 

The months go by quickly after that, and soon enough it’s Christmas, a holiday he used to love. When he was younger, he’d make a bed out of mismatched blankets and sleep in front of the chaotically organized Christmas tree. There was always that night-before excitement that would creep into his young bones, but he hasn’t felt that in years. His birthday falls the night before, on Christmas Eve, and last year Drew threw him a big bash, going all out by ordering dozens of kegs and two DJs.

This year, however, Louis can’t put on his facade of perfect son, and instead watches people, starting with his parents. They go on a lot of expensive Holidays to places like Greece and Mexico; they say _I love you_ every morning before heading off to their respective workplaces; and still seem to make each other laugh. It’s counterproductive when they put the girls to sleep and start to scream at each other.

He notices now how his drinks more than usual now and his father—the man that adopted him at such a young age and raised him—gets a look that crosses his face, similar to defeat and exhaustion. Or perhaps this new discovery isn’t fresh at all, maybe it’s been there all along, but Louis is now opening his eyes.

He’s starting to see Zayn again, too, after many years. They met in year nine, when Zayn wore preppy cardigans and chinos with letterman jackets, and his only addiction was just starting, hands twitching for a fag now and again.  Although their rebellions have taken on different faces with the years, they’ve remained close friends. And while Zayn does awful shit, like steal from his parents to buy drugs and his sobriety level varies by the hour, Zayn has never let him down; no one Louis trusts the most.

Even when Zayn tells him they’re going to Ant’s New Year’s party and just the thought of it makes Louis want to drink bleach, he agrees.

 

He and Zayn arrive too late, lost track of the time doing a couple bowls in the car lot of a random bakery. They ended up doing the countdown right there, in the front seats of Zayn’s new Bentley, and when the thin boy reached over and pressed their lips together hard , adding too much tongue for Louis’ taste, well, hey, he wasn’t about to complain.

Everyone is already incredibly drunk by the time they finally arrive. He finds a few people to idly chat with, but this crowd has never been his scene, considering he knows a lot of people here who’ve never liked him for being the Football Star and dating Drew, who’s disliked by many. As an alternative, Louis follows Zayn around, who seems to know _everyone_ and is liked by _everyone_ , having no boundaries between social cliques, something Louis envies.

They wander into the living room and Zayn stretches his neck high, in search for someone. It’s Louis who sees Harry first, sitting on a sectional in the far end of the room, next to a lad around their age, who keeps talking. It looks like Harry isn’t paying him any mind, nodding casually and picking at the label on his beer bottle, never looking at the bloke. He has a blue snapback backwards on his head, holding back his curls, and a tattered Rolling Stones shirt Louis recognizes from years back. He looks perfect, as usual.

“Harry!” Zayn yells loudly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He waves the boy over, but Harry hesitates, looking between them two. He must see something dangerous in Zayn, for he mumbles goodbye to the bloke next to him and leisurely walks in between a few bodies to them. Harry doesn’t say anything. How shocking.

Louis has enough alcohol in his system and weed fogging up his brain to be show his irradiation, to be a bit ballsy. “Hi!” he yells loudly, too loudly, causing people around them to turn their heads, but he feels as though it isn’t thunderous enough. He wants to be loud enough for Harry, wants to be strident enough so he can’t ever be ignored again, so the curly haired twat knows of his presence.

“Hi,” Harry mumbles back, only meeting his eyes for a few spare seconds.

Louis wants to punch him. He wants to punch him the mouth and immediately press his lips to his, hard, rough, painfully. He wants to push Harry down and then straddle him. He wants— _something_ , anything.

Zayn grabs onto Louis’ hand and tugs, leading him outside. He doesn’t know for a minuet if Harry has the smarts to follow them out to the small porch, but when Zayn starts talking about seeing Banksy’s art the next time they go to London, he knows, but doesn’t bother looking away from the shining stars. Zayn pulls out a small water bottle containing a dark liquid, passing it around. Harry keeps his head down.

“Oh, look! Perrie’s here,” Zayn says in mock-fascination. “Gotta go say hi, mustn’t be rude now.” He flashes them a meaningful smile before jumping off the steps and heading towards the white-blonde girl pulling up the driveway. Subtlety has never been his forté.

They stand awkwardly. “Look,” Louis starts, clasping his hands together, “This is awkward. I get that you don’t want to talk to me, so I’m gonna head back inside. I think there’s some Nyquil calling my name. I’ll see you—“

“Move,” Harry says suddenly, eyes staring down at the road.

“What?”

 “ _Move_ ,” he hisses then, grabbing Louis’ arm and pulling him down the porch and around the side of the house. He pulls something out of his pocket, dumping it in a bush. “Cops,” he explains.

Louis trails behind the tall boy, looking back to see flashing lights. They run through the garden out into an alley, ducking into a neighbour’s garden a few houses down, standing close underneath a dark tree. It’s only a few seconds later when a similar, checked, white police auto passes down the alley with the lights off. They can hear people shouting then, the heavy footsteps of drunken teenagers running down the alley. The Drake that was coming from Ant’s house stops suddenly, and standing on his tip-toes Louis can see scattering, but there’s no Zayn.

“He’ll be alright,” Harry mumbles.

Louis lowers himself again, body radiating from Harry’s close proximity, body heat once again warming him like it did all those months ago. “He’s fine, I know, but he was my ride.” If there’s one thing in the world that Louis would never doubt, it’s Zayn’s ability to take care of himself.

“I’ll drop you off.” Harry says, still looking straight ahead. “We have to wait some; there’ll be cops chasing through the side streets.”

Louis can only stare at him. He wants to ask so many questions, like how he knows that about the cop cars, and what he threw in the bushes as they ran past. He wonders if Harry’s been too many parties like this, has experience running from the law. At the parties he ever attended with Drew, if the cops showed up they only got asked to turn the music down—the difference between a mansion and a two-floor. Louis guesses Ant’s was not one of those parties.

 

After the chaos of the party, Harry’s car is too silent, and it causes his ears to ring. With his snapback off, Harry’s curls fall down to the side, and it takes all of Louis’ will power not to reach over and brush them back. He has to remind himself that Harry doesn’t like him, has given no indication he even finds him tolerable, and besides that one night, they mean nothing, and brushing his fingers through his hair would probably not be taken the right way.

“Who was that lad?” And _God_ , no, did he really just blurt that out? At Harry’s confused look, Louis clarifies, embarrassed but desperate enough to continue, “The one who was sat next to you when I—Zayn found you, in the living room.”

Harry pauses. “Just a lad.”

Is Louis _just a lad_ , too? “Where you supposed to give him a ride home?”

He smiles, then, dimples deep like craters, causing Louis’ stomach to flip-flop. “No.”

They don’t say anything else, and maybe Harry wouldn’t like to hear that he needs to smile more because it makes his whole face light up, and besides, Louis lives close. Soon, Harry’s pulling up a driveway, Louis’ house dark and looming. He flips the headlights off.

“Thanks for the ride home.”

He doesn’t say anything back, only grips the gear shift harder, knuckles bursting white, and Louis’ own hand seems to have developed a mind of its’ own, pulling his off the gear shift and placing it on his thick, jean-clad thigh. Louis slides it up slowly until it’s right where he needs it to be, inches below his hip. Harry’s long fingers brush against the side of his hardened dick, and the green-eyed boy exhales brokenly.

“Do you not think about? Ever?” Louis asks, watching the pale, tattooed hand grip his thigh. “I do, I think about it a lot.”

Harry says nothing.

Louis moves his hand until it’s pressed right up against his clothed cock, straining in its confinement. He breathes out and looks straight ahead, waiting. If Harry decides not to do it—well, that’s that, and he’ll understand, he’ll try to, anyway. But he wants Harry, wants him so bad, he needs to know that the boy thinks about him, too, even if it’s just flashes of that night.

But Harry does it, leans over and unbuttons his jeans, pulling on his zipper. Louis doubts an enormous hand can fit in between the fabric and his abdomen, so he arcs up, shimming his jeans down to his ankles, until he’s left in his pants. The only thing he can do is watch with wide eyes and grip tightly at his seat when Harry’s hand finally snakes down the front of his pants, groaning lowly at the pressure on his dick. He almost doubles over in the passenger seat at the first touch, so close already, so unimaginably hard.

Harry starts pulling at him gently, but firmly, with a dry hand, and Louis never does it like that, never likes to go at it dry, but it feels amazing, the slow, dry burn, the way one hand is good enough to fit around his cock when Louis usually goes at it with two. It makes his cock ache, hard, but he realizes he likes the pain, biting at his lower lip until it throbs, licking it over with a soothing tongue. 

He makes a strangled noise when Harry picks up his pace, gripping tighter, so tight that it almost hurts, too, _raw_ , and with that and the dryness of his hand, Louis’ almost done. He’s been thinking about those hands for months now, branded into the back of his eyelids every night, the rough feeling of them, their size, and those long _fingers_. He’s been dreaming about those hands and what they look like against his skin, but when he looks down, he frowns, “I can’t see.”

He lifts himself up, making Harry pause, and slides down his pants, pooling at his ankles with his jeans. Harry takes that short moment to lick at his hand, before going back to jerking Louis off, thumb sliding against the wet slit. Louis makes a broken noise, one he’s too turned on to be embarrassed about, panting. He’s close.

His one mistake, however, is turning to look at Harry. The boy is bent over, dilated eyes focused on his hand, moving in long, twisting pulls, biting down hard on his lip. Louis doesn’t have a chance to give a warning and cries out, spilling over Harry’s hand, still working him in a tight grip while he rides out his orgasm. Louis reaches out to grab onto something, leaving a handprint on the foggy window.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, watching Harry wipe his hand against his own jeans, before latching onto Harry’s neck, dainty hands reaching for his belt, but the younger lad only grabs onto his wrists and pushes him back into the passenger seat. Louis’ stunned, but quickly mortified, body flushing red from head to toe. His wrists are released and Harry leans back into his own seat, looking out the windshield.

Louis is quick to pull up his pants and jeans. He just—he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t Harry want him? Or why— _why?_ “You must think I’m such a—,” but he can’t say it. He’s heard it enough times in the past few months, has nightmares about it, but can’t bring himself to say it.

“No,” Harry says simply, no emotion in his voice.

How damn reassuring. Louis knows he’s most likely lying, maybe trying to spare his feelings. Between this and the photograph and the cheating, Louis seems like the furthest thing from a saint. “Then? Then what is wrong with you? Why won’t you let me?” he demands.

Harry twists a ring on his middle finger. “You aren’t over him.”

Louis doesn’t know why _that_ matters, especially now, or how Harry got that impression. “Maybe not completely,” he confesses, “but after what he did with that picture, it won’t be too hard.” Harry’s looking at his hands as usual, pondering, and Louis wishes he could read his mind, maybe just this once, completely lost as to what’s going on in that curly-haired head. “I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re worried about. I didn’t say it was you.”

“I know,” his jaw clenches, tone short.

“It could’ve been bad.”

Harry turns and looks at Louis. He looks at him like he’s really seeing him, like he’s seen him again for the first time since that night; eyes raking over his face, calculating, searching. The intensity of his look makes Louis want to crawl under a rock, but he bravely meets his greens. He’s ballsy, now. “I’m not afraid of Drew,” Harry spits.

Louis’ breath is shallow. “I didn’t say that.”

“Are _you_?”

It’s not hard to figure out what he’s implying, clear as daylight, but Louis is tired of having people believing he’s some sort of victim, helpless. “No, I’m not scared of, Harry,” Louis breaks the stare. “Not like that.”  When he looks back again, Harry is facing forward, once again unreadable. “I wish you’d talk to me.”

“I am talking.”

“Hardly,” Louis scoffs. “You don’t even look at me. You act as if I don’t exist.”

His laughter is abrupt and shrill, and Louis jumps, startled to see his normally passive face angry. Harry flips the headlights back on and puts the car in reverse, and okay, that’s Louis’ cue, then.

“Happy New Year, Harry,” he mumbles, stumbling out of the door. When Harry doesn’t reply, he shuts the door and steps back, watching as the cars pulls out quickly, speeding down the street. He stands there in the cold until the taillights are completely gone from his view.

 

Zayn doesn’t return until after dawn. In the living room, Louis can hear the birds chirping outside, and he watches another rerun of Criminals Mind with the volume low and empty eyes. “I don’t get it,” Louis groans the moment his best mate comes stumbling in and crashes on the couch besides him.

“Hm?”

“It’s like he _wanted_ me to tell Drew it was him. Why would he want that?”

The pause is too long and Louis turns from Penelope Garcia to check Zayn’s not asleep, but the latter is only starring at him curiously with his lips turned upwards. His words slur, “He wanted you to make it real, you knob.”

_What_? That makes him sit up. “What does the hell does that mean?”

Zayn groans and props his arms behind his head. “It’s like... He wanted Drew to know, so they could act all manly-man about it, super macho, have a real Western face-off,” he laughs when Louis sends him a glare. “Okay, okay, it’s just so like, he can claim you, Lou. Say your his now. I dunno,” Zayn shrugs lazily, closing his eyes.

_Claim him_? You don’t go around and claim someone you don’t like, that has to mean—Harry _does_ like him. He likes him enough to face Drew, Louis realizes, lying back down.

“Did ya snog?” Zayn’s voice breaks into the quiet after a few minuets.

Louis shakes his head until he notices his mate’s eyes are closed. “No, uh, we didn’t.” He frowns at that, wishing they had. “But, like, I kinda got him to get me off? Gave me a handy in his car, knew what he was doin’ that’s for certain. Although,” he adds with confusion, “he didn’t let me do it back.”

Zayn guffaws like it’s hysterical, tears forming in his eyes, clutching at his stomach. Louis doesn’t find it very funny at all.

>>>> 

“Seriously,” Louis deadpans looking up at the tall, metal fence. “We don’t all have the luxury of long legs, Z, how the fuck do you expect me to climb over that old, rusty thing? I could get like, tetanus.”

“It’d be the only anus you’ve gotten in a long time, huh, Lou?” Zayn smirks back, laughing from the other side of the fence. “Just stop your whining, c’mon, I’ll help you down from this side. Haven’t you got any upper strength? Used to brag about having the biggest biceps in year nine.”

Louis narrows his eyes down at him in annoyance and huffs. The climb isn’t as bad as it looks, feet hooking into the holes easily, leg swinging over. He slaps Zayn’s supporting hands off his arse with one hand and jumps down smoothly. He tries to rid his fingers from the orange rust, but it doesn’t budge.

“Why are we here again?”

“This is the Ghost Yard,” Zayn explains, walking forward. The field is filled with abandoned train cars and overgrown weeds. “This is where the freight train cars used to sit at night, the ones that carry things, yeah? If you got a piece on one of those cars, and it ran through the city the next morning, you were the shit. But these were replaced by newer ones years ago, and the city just kinda left ‘em here. Hence it’s name, the Ghost Yard.” He points a finger at a few cars in the distance, “There are some that have work older than the both of us, bro.”

Living in a city, graffiti tends to blend into the background for most people; you don’t notice it anymore unless it’s your property that gets vandalised or it’s thrown in your face—suddenly scrawled across your favourite record store, fresh on the side of a bus, on a post in the corner, or the highway overpass. Especially the highway overpass—Louis has always wondered how they get up there, or why he’s never heard about a graffiti artist plummeting to death.

 All of the rows of train cars are vandalised, covered in words drawn on with thick markers and spray painted in. Some, but not most, are easy to read, legible to the eyes, but Louis likes the harder ones. He likes standing in front of them for a few minuets at a time, slowly decoding each font, making out each letter and putting the word together. They walk around the box cars slowly, taking their time and the tangle of bright letters and curves.

“Most of the old-school stuff is gone,” Zayn informs him. “But there are a few left,” he points out some of the thicker letters, the paint faded and peeling off slowly. “A lot of people think that this—all of this—always has to do with gangs and shit like that, but it’s not true, not always.”

“Have you ever come here?”

Zayn nods, meeting his eyes. “Once or twice, I think. It’s exhilarating, the thrill, the quiet where the only thing you hear is the sleeping city in the distance and the hiss of your can. But—but not lately, if that’s what you’re wondering. I haven’t painted much as of late, I guess, like. Not been feeling it, y’know?”

Louis knows, he’s noticed, of course. Zayn used to carry his sketchbook around with him, never letting it sit for more than a few minuets. Louis would always have to drag him out of his basement, all covered in spray paint, smelling of fumes, happy and pleased with his work of the day. Louis thought with the drugs and smoking and the alcohol—well, he thought maybe it would inspire his friend even more, cause him to spend more hours cooped up in his studio, but that hasn’t been the case. He hasn’t seen Zayn pick up an art pencil in over a year.

“Some are political,” Zayn continues. “You know those, right, I’ve showed you enough Banksy. Some are simply social commentary, but the ones I like the most...,” he trails off, grabbing Louis’ hand to pull him through a maze of box cars until they’re standing at one in particular. “...Are the declarations of love.”

Louis stares up at the train before him. It’s all done with black and white, sans the light blue accents surrounding it. There’s a background to it, almost like a mural, something he hasn’t seen quite often on cars like these. It’s a vivid, dark blue, night sky with bright, white stars dotting it. There’s a globe in the middle of two letters, also light blue and dramatically framed with emphasized shadowing. “It’s beautiful,” he admits, looking at it closely before shooting a smile at Zayn, before turning to walk to another.

Zayn rolls his eyes and grabs onto his arm again, pulling them back until all of the piece can be seen clearly. Zayn wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and rests his chin on his shoulder, “Actually look at it, Lou,” he chuckles. “ _Read_ it.”

“I don’t think I can.” Louis tilts his head, studying the jumble of intertwined letters, the curves of the globe in the centre, the small stars contrasting against the dark. “I can’t read what it says.” 

Zayn traces the air with a finger, reading the words as he goes. Louis’ heart beats violently against his chest. There’s an _L_ , then the beautifully done globe, a _U_ , an _I_ , and a _S_. What in the hell is his name doing on one of these train cars? He asks Zayn just that, who rolls his eyes again with exasperation.

“Harry did it, you twat. You can be a proper idiot sometimes, Lou.”

His eyes widen and he stands still. _Harry did this_? He wrote—painted, marked, tagged, whatever—Louis’ name on a box? He can’t wrap his head around what this might mean, the large significance behind it.

_“What’s this you got here?” Louis asks, turning Harry’s arm gently to trace over the dark splotch with an index. He has the same shady marks littered over small spots on his wrists and larger ones below his elbow, on his right arm, covering a few of his tats._

_“Paint,” is Harry’s reply. No explanation._

_Louis bends his head to place a kiss on the spot on his wrist, pressing more and more as he works his way up his bicep, which flexes under his wet lips_.

“Think of it like, the equivalent of carving your initials inside a heart on a tree,” Zayn breaks Louis out of his memories.

“Harry—he’s a—a tagger, then?” he asks, unsure of the terminology. He thinks of Harry’s room; of the sketchbooks upon sketchbooks stacked on his desk, the blank canvases leaning against the bottom of a wall, all the paints and pastels and markers. He doesn’t remember seeing any spray-paint cans, but that might be something Harry doesn’t keep out in plain eyesight. Or maybe there were some—Louis _was_ rather preoccupied, anyhow.

Zayn laughs, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his flat, inky hair, smiling. “Not anymore—not really—but at one time, sure.  He does legal walls now. That’s his name right there,” he points to right corner of the piece.

_Sabaism_.

The word rolls around in Louis’ tongue easily, but he can’t remember what it means. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Zayn gives him a loaded gaze. “Tomlinson. Besides the fact that Harry is—well, the way he _is_ , this isn’t something you go around bringing up in casual conversations, bro. You don’t talk about this to people who don’t write, people who don’t do what you do. If you get big enough, the city starts hauling arse and finding things out, and if they figure out who you are...”

“Did Harry get big?”

Zayn pauses before nodding hesitantly. “He started when he was like, around fourteen, before he moved here. He gained a reputation here, though, for being reckless, unafraid, I suppose. And really, really good, too.”

“This,” Louis nods towards the piece with his name, “When did he do this?”

“A few years back.”

“ _Years_?” Louis’ heart stops.

Zayn looks at him with big, sad, gold eyes and frowns, but doesn’t reply.

Louis can’t stop looking at his—his?—train car, even when his mate wanders off again. He wonders what it feels like to do something like this; Zayn said he felt a thrill, a rush of adrenaline, and is that what Harry felt, too? Louis’ no angel, it’s not like he’s never smoke a few blunts or drunk before he was legal, but this—this is on a whole other level, he would never have the guts to do this. But maybe he would’ve tagged along with Harry, tried it out for the rush and the chance to see him paint this.

He doesn’t believe he’s ever felt as free as those curves and those edges look, with no logical pattern in those lines, burning brilliant as they lie on steel. A long time ago, Louis used to believe himself to be as bold, cheeky, and insolent as this piece of work, as this paint and colour. Perhaps he could’ve been, but Harry’s proud declaration of—love, want, lust?—on this freight train car makes _him_ realise he’s never made any declarations of his own. Louis’ been a coward all these years, learning to live in his routine, content with outside surface layers of everything in his life, never bothering to look deeper.

He’s not content anymore.

 

_Sabaism: the worship of the stars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing what you have to say, so leave something in the comment box if you'd like. Kudos if you'd like to read more :)
> 
> Have a great weekend!


	3. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the wonderful people who have commented; I love reading all your lovely comments, they make my day. Also, thank you to everyone has left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. :)
> 
> This is the playlist I always listen to while writing for this story, check it out if you'd like [here](http://8tracks.com/survivingindie/rainy-days-1%22)

* * *

 

We’re Chasing All Those Stars

>>>> 

 

 

Louis spends the rest of his weekend cleaning his room. He doesn’t do it often, or like, ever, but he thinks it’s time to rid his bedroom of any traces of his ex-boyfriend. It’s been months and every time he wakes up only for his eyes to fall on the gigantic, white teddy bear on the corner of his bed, his heart lurches and it’s like he’s taken two steps backwards when he’s only just taken on forwards. It’s time.

 He spends a few hours on it, and eventually everything—ticket stubs from their first film dates, photo booth strips from the summer fair in London, every pressed and dried flower, and small, cheesy gift—sit at the bottom of his rubbish, out by his driveway. The big teddy bear with a red, velvet heart glued between its paws sits by itself on his drive, with a cardboard sign reading FREE. Louis’ surprised by his lack of sentimentality towards the objects, that at one point defined who he was, were a part of him. Now, they only seem childish and cheep.

He thought his clean, blue walls would feel bare and depressing, but they don’t. They feel rather fresh, like a new beginning, a clean slate. There’s only one thing from his relationship with Drew, however, that doesn’t go in the pile of rubbish. He hides that in his drawer for safekeeping.

>>>> 

Zayn meets him by his car early Monday morning, and already the tattooed boy is suspicious. “You look proper peppy for a Monday morning. Why?” He has black Ray-Bans covering his eyes despite the overcast weather. Louis can only wonder how he spent his weekend if he’s showing up to college still hungover.

Louis beams, “I’m gonna talk to Harry today, properly talk to him. Well, try to, anyway.” He shrugs his shoulders to try and show off his nonchalance nature, but he knows his mate doesn’t buy it. He’s nervous and anxious, all over a boy. He’s ridiculous.

Zayn slows his pace down, scratching at the underside of his jaw, until he stops completely, paces away from their college entrance. “I don’t think he’ll be here today, Lou.”

Despite the dark tint of his sunglasses, Louis can tell he’s avoiding his eyes. The excitement drains from his body quickly. “What? Why not?”

Zayn rubs at his temples and sighs. “Look, I shouldn’t have taken you to the Ghost Yard. Harry felt—he felt like I crossed a line.”

“He didn’t know? I thought he knew, I thought he gave you permission to show me—“

“I thought it would help, alright?” Zayn leans against a pillar, crossing his arms over his chest, his tone defensive. “I was tired of seeing you knobheads dance around each other. Harry doesn’t—he’s not happy about it, s’all.”

Louis hadn’t thought about it like that, Zayn helping them. He’s obviously putting his relationship with Harry on the line. “Did you? Cross a line, I mean?”

“Probably,” Zayn shrugs. “He’s not pleased I told you about Drew’s black eye, either.” He reaches up to mess with the brim of grey, backwards snapback. “You know, I should just stop blabbing, honestly. Stop getting myself in trouble, ‘m only making it worse.”

Louis’ unsure of what to do next. He came to college with a plan and now there’s been a change. He doesn’t know where Harry’s mind is, but then again, he never has truly known. “Is he cross with me?”

“No, not at all—it’s not your fault, mate. You know Harry, he’s just so private. He feel exposed. I don’t know, I can’t blame him. No one likes to feel that way.”

Louis recognises the awkward position this puts Zayn in, stuck in the middle, trying to please both of his mates. Despite the fact that he wants to plead for more information on Harry, he doesn’t. He wants to ask so many things, his mind can’t wrap around all the questions like, for example, why is Zayn hungover on a Monday morning? Where did he go last night?

He doesn’t ask anything at all, instead drags them both inside. He leaves Zayn alone for the rest of the day, too. There may have been a change of plans, but Louis isn’t going to let that stop him from talking to Harry. If Zayn won’t talk to him, then Harry will.

Well, maybe.

>>>> 

Louis doesn’t live far away from Harry, but they might as well live on different ends of the continent. While his neighbourhood is quiet and residential, filled with kids on scooters and grandparents with Yorkies, with cul-de-sacs and precisely cut hedges and beige, Harry’s is the complete opposite. Driving towards Harry’s house, he immediately notices the changes, from progression to old brick construction—converted warehouses, the occasional pair of tattered, white trainers hanging from a power line, an increase of graffiti. Louis remembers hearing about the trainer theory, something that came from the States, something to do with street drugs or gang territories, he doesn’t know.

He parks his Range Rover and sits for a few minuets, looking around. The park where he and Zayn skate is right across the street, is also the skate park that started it all. There’s a sex shop further down with blacked-out windows, a record shop, and a small coffee shop. It’s basically calling out to starving hipsters, a mecca for artists and the homeless. It’s a few streets over where it starts to get rough.

A bus stop by the corner catches his eyes, with a tag on the left, bottom corner, and some part of him secretly hopes it’s Harry’s work. He gets out, locking the Rover behind him, and goes to sit on a bench, next to an elderly woman flipping through a redtop. The woman shoots him a suspicious look, which he tries to soften, giving her his most charming smile.

The mark on the bus stop is black, marring the plexiglass, marker flowing freely. The tag, for some reason, makes him feel so astonishingly small, like he doesn’t know shit about anything other than the bubble he’s been living in. There’s so many other places in his city to explore, a whole _world_ out there, and a few months back he was content being where he was. There’s parts of the city he has never been to with people living lives he can’t even fathom about. Someone made this tag, this dark, black mark, and Louis will never know who it was or why they did it, what it means, or where they are now.

That’s what is different about Louis now: he cares. He never gave a damn about anything, never cared to find out the _why_ or the _how_ , had never opened his eyes. The lives of people he didn’t know didn’t interest him—Harry, for example—and he sure as bloody hell didn’t sit on bus benches besides old ladies staring at graffiti, thinking a load of bullshit he can’t even make sense of.

Perhaps this is exactly what he needs; needs to get a little dirt on his hands, a bit of rust, maybe some girt—some _imperfections_ to make things a bit more interesting, realistic. Louis thinks of Harry’s room, his records, and his drawing pads and markers and paints. He thinks of the swatches of dark paint on his skin that didn’t wash off, like a shadow. Maybe Louis needs to get his hands a little dirty, too.

The bus comes and the lady hobbles of the seat, grabbing her shopping bags. Louis thinks of going back home, because in truth he has no idea what he would even fucking say to him. He should save himself the mortification of fish-mouthing and just go home, but the thought of returning to his quiet, empty room in his quiet, empty house is so _boring_ and sad he’d rather face a bit of humiliation instead.

He remembers Harry’s building, but can’t for the life of him recall the number, so he looks for the surname _Styles_ on the post-boxes. When he pushes the buzzer, the door unlocks seconds later, but no one invites him in. With his stomach churning, he climbs the steps to the top floor, where the door is ajar and a sweet scent floats through the hallway. He walks in timidly, quiet, peeking around the large, steel industrial door.

Inside, there’s a young, blue candyfloss haired woman at the counter, mixing a bowl of what must be biscuit batter. She looks up at him with big, familiar green eyes and a white, toothy grin. “Hi!”

“Uh, hi.” Louis glances around the bare loft. There’s not much, just a plasma hung up a brick wall and a sectional. There’s a small, black dining table with two mismatched chairs. There’s unframed art on the high walls and an easel in the corner, facing a window, holding a blank canvas. His eyes land on Harry’s closed bedroom door before the flit back to her.

“Looking for Harry, are you?” She asks, putting down the glass bowl and wiping her hands on a pink cupcake apron.

“Yeah, ‘m Louis.”

At that, her candyfloss head snaps up, eyeing him with curiosity. “Louis,” she repeats, nodding. “He’s up on the roof, I believe. Go out the door and up a flight.” She stares at him a little more, before ducking her head down and smiling in amusement.

Louis’ footsteps fall heavily against the concrete, echoing throughout the empty corridor. With an anxious heart, he pulls open the sturdy door, slipping onto the roof slowly. Harry’s right there, sitting on a cushioned, wicker chair, long curls flicking in the wind, staring at the skyline. He looks up at Louis when the door thumps shut behind him, but there’s so surprise in his eyes.

“Your mum let me in,” Louis says quietly, rocking back on his feet. The wind blows his fringe away from his eyes, too.

“That’s m’sister,” Harry corrects, and Louis stops himself from wincing. Right, he knew that; that’s something Zayn has told him about before. She looked much too young to have birth a seventeen year old, anyway.

“Sorry,” he walks closer; going to sit on the other chair, but Harry only shrugs. From up here on the roof, they’ve got a perfect view of the river and some of the city. “I wanted to ring you, but I, uh, I don’t have your number, so.” Harry doesn’t reply, only keeps watching the city move on slowly, and Louis’ used to it, has come to expect the quiet from the boy, but he has no idea how to continue the conversation. Maybe it was a bad idea, after all.

 “I never say the damn bloody right thing, do I?” He chuckles dryly. Harry probably already picked up on that, he realizes. “I think Zayn—he was only trying to help.” Louis turns his sight on a pair of empty pots in a corner. Even if Harry doesn’t reply, he can only hope he’s listening. “I can’t say that I don’t have any regrets,” Harry’s back stiffens at that, “but I don’t regret— _can’t_ regret being here with you, now.”

Louis’ words are honest, the most honest he’s ever been in years. His words have the power to change it all, they put him in the most vulnerable of states, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He needs Harry to hear this. But the younger boy only stands from his seat and walkes over to the ledge of the rooftop, looking down. After a few minuets, Louis stands, too, humiliated and miserable, ready to bolt.

“Just give me a second, please,” Harry says to the wind. He must sense Louis’ discomfort and dire need to run out the door. Louis waits, watching his green eyes squint adorably against the sun, and his jumper whip with the wind. “Look,” Harry turns to him, “I’m not good at all of this, alright? Shit, like, the talking part.”

He leans back against the brick, bright eyes flickering from Louis’ lips to his eyes. “ _He_ knew,” he says, expression softening. “He _knew_ , and it would’ve taken me months to grow the balls to talk to you, so. I kicked his arse.”

“And that shit Zayn showed you?” he continues, not letting Louis speak even after he opens his mouth. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“It was beautiful,” Louis blurts. “I loved it.”

Harry shrugs, “I suppose.”

His large, pale fingers are still stuffed in his small pockets and Louis reaches for him, running his palms against his inked arm, tugging on his wrist. He has red paint underneath his blunt fingernails, and Louis can’t help but lay his own palm against Harry’s, the size difference sending a non-discreet shiver down his spine. When Harry kisses him this time, it feels right, just right.

It’s exactly what a first kiss should feel like; a bit timid, hesitant, slow. Harry’s big hands—oh, how Louis has come to love those hands—go to slide around his waist gently, then down cautiously to rest on his hips. He presses his fingers down at that spot firmly, urging Louis closer and closer until it feels as thought they might just become one, and then he snakes an arm around his waist, holding him tight. Harry’s lips are warm, like red velvet, and Louis’ hand is steady as it runs over his sculpted jaw and down to his neck, where he can feel Harry’s heart beating in rhythm.

They do something Louis hasn’t done in years: they simply kiss. Harry sits back on one of the old, wicker chairs and pulls Louis down on his lap, legs on either side of him. They kiss and kiss, pure pressing of lips and meeting of tongues, until the once bright sky is blue ink, stopping to pull apart and catch their breaths, eyelashes fawned over pale skin, red lips trapping golden skin. Harry shrugs off his jumper and pulls it over the smaller, shivering boy, who instantly swims in the gray, wool material.

When Harry smiles, Louis stares. He watches that dimpled grin until it fades and Harry’s pulling him closer for another kiss; he watches for as long as he can, like it might never happen again. Every time Louis sees him, it’s like looking at him for the first time. His palms get clammy and his heart becomes erratic, and his legs act like cooked spaghetti. He questions it, wonders if he’ll always feel this way over the boy, and he sincerely hopes he will.

It’s not until Louis is turning back towards his house, that he realises he has no clue what will happen tomorrow, at college. He has his expectations, of course he does, but he’s surprised to feel the lack of nervousness in his body.

>>>> 

His expectations weren’t something impossible. He thought they were quiet simple, really; he and Harry would meet in the car lot before classes, Harry would grab his hand as they walk in, informally declaring them a couple to the whole school, declaring them one another’s. Harry would then snog him properly at his locker, Drew would see them and start a petty fight, and Harry would knock him out with one single punch, proudly claiming Louis as his.

Obviously, Louis’ expectations aren’t met. Maybe it was childish of him, a silly fantasy, but he doesn’t see why it wasn’t _possible_. It totally was. He sees Harry once before their lunch, but the tall boy is all the way at the other end of the hallway and he stares at Louis as he turns the corner, but doesn’t bother to change his path. Louis feels his face flush once Harry is out of sight and he slams his textbooks into his locker with force.

Zayn comes up to him with a grin. “Harry wants you to meet him in the art room like, now.”

Louis’ body reacts as it always does when Harry’s mentioned: his heart pounds faster and his breath catches in his throat. He’s a fool, basically. He doesn’t move, however, from his spot by his locker, even if what Zayn is saying is true and Harry is waiting for him.

“Okay... Did you not hear me? _Harry Styles_ is waiting for you in the art room. Now. He’s waiting, now. For you. You, Louis Tomlinson. Harry Styles is wait—“

“I understood the first time,” Louis laughs. He shrugs, “I don’t know, I just thought things would be, you know, different now.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Zayn groans hitting the back of his head against a locker. “What—you want him to be your boyfriend now, do you? Louis, he’s not—Harry isn’t Drew, you know this, right? He doesn’t care about that kind of shit. Polar opposites, those two. Harry isn’t—“

“I know,” Louis snaps. “I’m not a complete idiot, Zayn.”

“Harry isn’t like,” Zayn continues, ignoring Louis’ desperate look. “He’s not going to take you to the bloody prom, or hold your hand in the hallway. He’s not going put his arm around you during lunch or help sneak you out of class to snog in your car.”

Louis says nothing, can’t. There’s a lump of coal in his throat, preventing him from breathing.

“Louis,” Zayn frowns, wrapping long, tan arms around his mate’s waist. “He’s so worth it, though,” he whispers, “Harry is worth it, I promise.”

 

He does run to the art room afterwards, but stops in the loos beforehand. Standing in front of the mirror, with shaky hands lying at his sides, he tries to gather his thoughts before meeting Harry. He looks up at the mirror and is taken aback: he doesn’t recognize himself. His hair is getting longer, longer than he’s ever had it before, ends curling at the end of his nape. He’s wearing a black and white baseball-style tee and black skinny jeans, matched with chequered Vans.

It’s dark, his outfit, much, much different than what he wore a few months back, at the beginning of Upper Sixth. His wardrobe at home is beginning to feel a bit crowded, filling up with more black jeans and plain tees and big jumpers, and his bright striped shirts and coloured chinos are being pushed further back. He used to call so much attention with his red trousers and braces, but now even looking at them makes him cringe, and he doesn’t understand why.

He feels more... himself, in his current outfit.  But even with that being said, it still freaks him out. He has never been this boy, this skater-like kid with scuffed trainers and holey jeans and unkempt hair. But he is now, he definitely is now.

 

He pushes his way into the arm room and is instantly surprised by its large size. The white walls are covered with a variety of art work, from pastels to acrylics to crosshatching to 3D figures. Louis has never actually been inside the infamous art room before, art never being one his strongest points. He frowns, looking around, noticing that Harry isn’t sitting at any of the square, wooden tables.

“Hello?” he calls out. Maybe he took too long in the loo and Harry left. Maybe he changed his mind about seeing him. Maybe he regrets last night, that’s why he wants to see him during lunch. Maybe—

“In here!” a familiar, low voice rings out from another door across the room.

The next room is a lot smaller and simpler with less artwork scattered around, than the previous. There are large windows covering the walls and empty easels organized in the middle of the room. Underneath a window sits a small, grey patterned loveseat, and sprawled on top of it is one, long Harry Styles, feet hanging off.

Harry looks up and smiles lightly, capping his black marker and throwing in a clear basket at his feet, tossing a sketchbook at the end of the loveseat. It’s then when Louis knows exactly how it’s going to be: stealthy meetings in empty rooms, in deserted hallways, in the back of the library, in storage closets. Louis should turn around and leave, is what he should do; he should demand to be respected, to be treated like something other than a secret, to be respected enough to not be fucked in the _art room_ , of all places.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t demand anything, especially doesn’t walk out. The need to be near him is so strong and paralyzing, that he can only move towards Harry instead of away. He stands in front of him, where Harry is now sat up on the grey chair, and leans down, resting his hands on the boy’s thighs. “Hi.”

Harry’s hands move to rest on his waist before pulling him down to settle him on his lap. “Hi,” he replies back with a smile. With Louis on his lap, they’re eye to eye and no one has to lean down or up to kiss. Which is what they do, of course; Louis leans forward to capture Harry’s bottom lip between his.  His lips are sweet, oranges, and the rooms spells like fresh marker, and Louis can only feel the soft that is Harry surrounding him.

Their kisses last night were fresh and exciting, getting-to-know-you presses of lips, but this. This is nothing like that, they way Harry’s hand moves from his hip to the curve of his bum is burning hot, pulling him as close to his body as they can possibly go. Their kisses slow down until they finally pull apart.

“Alright?” Harry asks.

Louis only nods, pushing his arse back into Harry’s lap. “Yes, yes,” he pleads, biting underneath his jaw. Harry pulls his hands away when Louis tries to reach for his belt, and when the shorter lad tugs on his jumper, Harry moves his dainty hands on his broad shoulders. Louis regrets ever thinking of not letting Harry fuck him in the art room, because that’s all his mind can solely think about as Harry’s hand messages him through his jeans.

Harry’s lips don’t leave his, and he’s so warm and cuddly, smells like vanilla and something else Louis can’t decipher; smells like _Harry_. Louis’ movements against his crotch get choppier, more desperate, moaning into Harry’s mouth, yearning to reach further down, yearning for skin on skin, for Harry’s fingers on him, _in him_. He feels a momentary wave of embarrassment crash into him as he ruts back on Harry’s clothed dick, but he can’t help it; Harry just feels so _good_ underneath him.

His orgasm doesn’t sneak up on him; he leans against Harry for his support, otherwise he might go toppling backwards, toes curling in his shoes painfully, but he’s surprised nonetheless at how easily he came. He’s hasn’t come in his pants since he was an awkward teenager, but this seems different. Special, even—it is Harry, after all. When he can’t move anymore, Harry does it for him, gripping onto his hips and moving them back and forth a slower pace, riding their climaxes out, chests pressed together, lips on neck.

Louis catches his breath, smiling easily. He watches as Harry frowns and adjusts himself, cringing at the feeling. “I can’t remember the last time I did that,” he breathes out, laughing lightly.

Harry’s lips press together, and _right_ , he would know who Louis did _that_ with first. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that, actually,” he admits.

“Well,” Louis starts, still confused. “You wouldn’t have had to jizz in your pants like a year nine if you had let me taken your clothes off.” He doesn’t understand why the boy underneath him is so hesitant; they’ve _fucked_ , they’ve gone all the way, and now he doesn’t want to shed his pants off for a bit of fun? Instead of waiting for an answer, Louis leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, smiling as Harry’s skin flushes.

When the bell rings, Louis is dazed and incredibly muddled. He doesn’t have to stop at another toilet to know exactly how he looks, with swollen lips and gleaming skin. He climbs off of Harry and stands, bending down to grab his backpack. Harry leans back, watching him with a clearly smug grin. Louis runs a hand through his messy fringe and sighs.

“What are you drawing?” he asks when Harry picks up his discarded sketchpad from the floor.

“Uh,” Harry shrugs casually, “just a few tattoo ideas for m’mate, Ni. He wants to get a tat, he’s a bit kooky, though. Need to think of something good.” He doesn’t open up the pad to show Louis, and Louis just leaves it at that.

“I’ll see you later, then? You don’t have a class?” He asks when he starts for the door and Harry stays put.

“No, got a free period.”

“See you?”

“Yeah,” he nods, looking back down at his pad.

Louis leaves the art room sticky and feeling like shit.  He gets about halfway down the hallway before he’s cursing and turning around. Harry looks up with mild interest, barely frazzled when he comes barging back in, and it bothers Louis. How can he stay so calm, why isn’t all of this affecting him like it’s affecting Louis?  There’re so many things he wants to say and so many questions he wants to ask, but he holds it in, only asking one thing.

The question he asks makes Harry smile, and maybe it’s because Louis is nervous, or maybe because he’s still flushed from earlier, walking awkwardly, or maybe because it’s just such a simple, normal question.

“Can I have your number?”

Harry reads his number off and Louis puts it in his mobile with shaky fingers. “I’ll uh, text you, so you can have mine, too.” Harry nods, smiling softly with furrowed brows. “Okay, well,” Louis starts backing up, “bye... again.”

He leaves awkwardly, back hitting the doorframe, mumbling another goodbye, and it takes his entire maths lesson for the humiliation to reside. He’s unable to concentrate for the rest of the day, but he’s become used to that. How can he possibly think of anything else when he just snogged Harry Styles, when he basically dry-humped Harry Styles and made them both come? _How_?

Louis doesn’t text him until much later that day, before bed. _I’m free-ballin it tomorrow in sweats. Be prepared._

>>>> 

Louis is in the right about a few things, but not all. They do find remote areas around the college to snog throughout the day, and for the first whole week of their—their _what_ , exactly?—thing, it’s always Louis-centric, all about getting him off. It’s not like Louis doesn’t try to squeeze a hand underneath the tight, black material of Harry’s jeans, but it’s more like the latter is a bit reluctant to do such things at school. He definitely has no problem letting Louis get on his knees when they’re at his flat, in his bedroom, or the couch, or once, even on the rooftop.

While everything’s been great, Harry still won’t fuck him.

He has never met any of Harry’s friends, either, and outside of Zayn, none of Louis’ know, moreover; they’re the only three that know about their dysfunctional relationship-thing. And as the weeks pass, the hope that they would have a healthy, normal relationship quickly diminishes from Louis’ being. Zayn only rolls his eyes at him and sighs, _what did you expect_ , and that’s true. Zayn is right, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting _more_.

Harry hasn’t given him any indication that he too wants more. Louis is Louis, and of course, he pushes the issue. Someone has to, otherwise what’s the point?

 

Harry’s on top of him, bare chest touching bare chest, and Louis is desperately arching his hips up, desperate for something, _anything_.  “Please,” he pleads, elbows propping him up, legs wrapped around a long torso.

The boy on top chuckles and fits a slick hand through the entrance of Louis’ pants, firmly wrapping around his hardness.  Louis lets out a broken whine at that, anxious for friction. “Please, _Harry_ , please,” Louis cries again. They don’t say each other’s name very often, for some odd reason, but Harry’s never leaves Louis’ mind.

“Please what?” Harry starts moving his hand up and down slowly, gentle. He leans down, supporting his weight with one hand, and presses his lips to Louis’ lips, who only sighs brokenly and falls back on the bed. “Please, what, Louis?”

He says his name quietly, but he _says_ it. That makes Louis immobile. Harry pulls back to look at him, and Louis is not exactly sure what he’s seeing, but it might be—it _is_ fond. Harry’s looking at him with wide, tender eyes and a tiny, warm smile, and he’s saying everything with his eyes that they never say out loud. Louis thinks—he might, _yes_ , he might. He might need to think these things out loud someday, not yet, Louis knows, not yet.

Harry’s thumb presses up against his slit with every pull, and he needs more. “Fuck,” Louis groans.

“Yeah?” Harry whispers underneath his ear.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Louis nods frantically. Struggling to keep his eyes open as Harry starts working him faster, taking the time to spread the pre-come blurting out from his shaft. “It’s all—it’s all I think about.” Harry bites his neck, teeth pressing with pressure against his skin. “St-stop or I’ll come.”

Harry doesn’t stop and Louis can’t stop himself, either, body trembling from the pleasure. Harry claps a hand over his mouth and when Louis opens his haze-filled eyes, the boy is looking over his shoulder at the closed door. “H-Harry?”  Louis’ eyes go wide when the door starts to open. He pulls the covers up to his waist, where his softening dick is still hanging out, and Harry pulls on a t-shirt backwards.

“Haz?” Gemma peeps her head in. “Do you want—oh. _Oh_ ,” she bites back at her grin. She backs out of the room and her laughter is loud in the hallway. “Sorry!”

“Oh, god,” Louis whispers, pulling the covers over his head.

“Don’t worry about Ge—“

“How would you feel if my mum had walked in on us?” Louis shoves the duvet off and tucks himself back in. He gets up from the bed with legs like Jell-O, picking up his discarded jeans. “Or worse, me _dad_. I’m so embarrassed.”

 Harry snorts at that, turning away to mess with his iPod. “How could that ever happen? We never go to your place, anyway.”

As deep crooning fills the small space, Louis doesn’t know what to think. He watches him, trying to figure him out simply by the way he moves, clumsy and graceful all at once. He watches the way his back ripples underneath the tight tee and the way his bum looks, so nice and pert in those pants of his, and he doesn’t understand him one bit. _Who the fuck is this kid?_ What the hell is it that he wants?

“We can, if you want. Go to my house, I mean. I just never really thought about it. You know I have five younger sisters and they’ll never leave those curls of yours alone if we went over there.”

“I don’t really care,” he shrugs, grabbing a drawing pad from his desk and throwing himself back on the ruffled bed.

_“It’s just another night and I’m staring at the moon. I saw a shooting star and thought of you. I sang a lullaby by the waterside, and knew if you were here, I’d sing to you...”_

Louis sits on the desk chair, facing him. They don’t speak and the tension makes him want to pack up his shit and leave, but he doesn’t. He stays put, still, on the hard chair, ears listening to the song, eyes watching Harry. Why is he always pulling away like this? To Louis something—something just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism or something like that, and just thinking the words makes Louis’ realise his own method.

It’s what went wrong with Drew and him: he never said what he meant, what he needed to say. He kept everything bottled up. He can’t do the same with Harry, not if he wants them to become anything.

_“You're on the other side, as the skyline splits in two. Miles away from seeing you, but I can see the stars from America...I wonder, do you see them, too?”_

“Do you like me?”

Harry doesn’t snap his head up like Louis wishes he had, but when he does look up, his face is sombre. He nods once.

“Okay,” Louis nods back. “Okay, good. I mean—do you actually _like_ me, Harry? Or are we—is this just like a fuck buddies thing? Are we just friends with benefits?”

Harry’s surprised, it’s clearly written on his pale face. Louis doesn’t know why he looks so incredulous. He doesn’t know what to think about that.

_“So open your eyes, and see the way our horizons meet. And all of the lights will lead, into the night with me.”_

 “You—the mixed signals, I—I can’t. I don’t know what you’re thinking, ever,” Louis confesses with wide eyes.  “Here, when it’s us two, then yeah, I’m sure you do like me. But then at school—at school it’s all snogging in the art room during lunch and getting a grope in behind the gymnasium lockers and midnight texts. Do you like me there, too?”

The sketchbook hits the floor, opened, and Louis catches a glimpse at a messily sketched, sharp face, before Harry’s calling his attention again, throwing his pencil behind him. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what _is_ it _like_ , Harry?”

Harry’s head snaps up at the broken sound of his name. Louis can actually see it now, the way he’s shutting himself down, the way Louis is being shut out, too, in the process. The sight itself makes his heart clutch, but there’s nothing to grab onto. Louis grabs his bag from the floor once again and goes to stand arm’s reach from Harry. He won’t look at him anymore.

“Harry, I—I really like you. You know this. I _like_ you,” he repeats. “I like you, and not just as fuck friends.”

_“And I know these scars will bleed, but both of our hearts believe...All of these stars will guide us home.”_

On his way out, he tries not think about the fact that this is the second time he leaves that flat in tears.

>>>> 

The next day, Saturday, Louis’ phone stays silent sans a few friends and Zayn. The one person who truly matters doesn’t call or even send a shit text message. Talking to Harry on the phone—the few times they’ve done it—have always been acutely painful; Louis can’t read his facial expressions or interpret what he’s saying and what he means by it. So maybe he’s a little thankful that his inbox stays empty.

 

“Lou?” Lottie knocks once on his door before pushing her way in on Sunday. Her big, blue eyes blink with curiosity. “There’s like, a really fit bloke down there asking for you. Really, _really_ long legs and curls and big, green—“

“ _Fuck_!” Louis sits up in bed, heart racing. “Harry? Harry’s here?”

His little sister seems unimpressed and sceptical. “Yeah, said he was here to see Louis. I told him he had the wrong Louis, because there’s no way he’s here to see—“

“Oh, God,” Louis laughs manically. Harry’s here. Harry Styles is actually here in his house, where he lives with his family, and— _his family_. They all must be down there, being nosy and touchy-feely. His mum probably already asked him for his whole life story and the twins must already have bows glued in those curly locks, and oh _God,_ Harry is downstairs. And Louis isn’t even dressed yet.

He forgets about Lottie as he rushes over to his closet, scanning rows of possible outfits. It’s not like Harry has never seen him in sweats and a dirty tee, but still, he’s at his house. Just because home is where you should feel most comfortable, it doesn’t mean Louis should look like a hobo, either. He’s tugging his shirt off when someone clears his throat, and oh, right, Lottie is still here.

“Can I help you?” his voice is muffled by the fabric in his mouth.

“No, no,” Lottie says, “Don’t worry; I’ll keep your boyfriend entertained. Take your time.”

_Boyfriend_? He only wishes.

He has never made himself so presentable in such a short amount of time, but he does it, aces it actually, even quiffs his hair a bit. Downstairs, Jay and Lottie Tomlinson are watching Harry with matching, interested, blue eyes. Louis knows they’re both flirting with him, and he doesn’t miss the thankful look that passes over Harry when he tugs on his arm to lead him upstairs.

“It was nice meeting you!” Lottie calls up.

“Louis, you know the rules!” Jay shouts, taking a break from sipping at her strawberry daiquiri. “Cover your willy before you get silly!”

Louis shuts the door behind them with as much dignity as he can muster, face burning. “So,” he exhales heavily. “You’re here.”

“What do you want?”

The curt question catches him off guard. “The truth?” Harry rolls his eyes and frowns. “Fine. I don’t want to be your secret, Harry.”

“You’re not,” Harry replies, voice seconds from a growl. “That’s not—that’s not what you are, you’re not some _secret_.”

Louis swallows. “You—you don’t event talk to me at school and—“

“You didn’t talk to me for four years!” Harry roars, his voice broken and loud, raised for the first time since Louis has known him. He pulls on a black snapback, rim dimming his eyes, and shoves his hands in his back pockets. “I—I painted that shit for you, Louis. I did that. You want to know how I feel? _That’s_ how I feel.” He hesitates, “I don’t know why you think I’m in control here, ‘cause I’m not.”

“Y-you have to stop resenting me,” Louis stutters, walking backwards as Harry prowls towards him, until his back is against the door. “I didn’t—I didn’t.”

“You have to stop expecting someone that I’m not. I’m not—I’m not the kind of guy—I’m not _him_ , Louis. Don’t do that.”

That’s exactly what Zayn said. He understands, though, he does. He shouldn’t expect anything, just let things be, let them come naturally. “Alright,” Louis nods. “Why—why won’t you have sex with me again?”

At that, Harry cackles, a loud, donkey laugh, and he slaps his hand over his mouth. “I don’t want you think that sex is what we’ll be about. I want more than that,” he admits once he sobers up.

Their lips meet instantly, a battle for dominance that Louis quickly gives up, electricity shooting down his limbs. “Can’t it be about both,” Louis breathes out against Harry’s lips. Their bodies are pressed together, every curve and edge meet, puzzle pieces fitting in harmony.

“Yes, of course, yes,” Harry agrees, meeting his lips once again.

Because his family is right downstairs, they keep their clothes on. But by the time Harry has to leave, Louis can’t walk without having to adjust the painful situation in his jeans. But it’s so worth it.

“So,” he says once they’re standing besides Harry’s car. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Louis tries to keep his beam at bay and fails, eyes becoming half-moons over his cheeks, crinkles forming at the corners. “Yeah?”

Harry rubs at the back of his neck, almost bashful. “Yeah.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me your thoughts/ideas! Love hearing what you have to say :) Until next week!


	4. Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who left a little love on the last chapter! It'd be awesome if we could get to 100 kudos before the next update :)
> 
> There may be some slight grammar errors, which I will get to asap. I just wanted to get this chapter out to you guys.

* * *

 

We’re Chasing All Those Stars 

 >>>>

 

His stomach aches. It churns, it flips, it flops, and it does summersaults inside of him. He’s nervous, anxious, heart palpitating, and he didn’t have to look in the mirror this morning to know of the lavender bags underneath his eyes. But he’s so ready, _God_ , is he ready.

Louis’ run through all the possible scenarios, probably a thousand times since last night, and maybe even _more_ since he and Harry started secretly dating. All those versions, however, are always too cinema-like, with hazy, dream-like filters and slow motion effects, and even some of Harry’s awful folk music playing happily in the background. The picture, in actuality, is a lot sharper; so much that it could cut through glass. It’s wonderful and it makes his hands sweat.

Louis is ready when Harry finally shows up. He’s been waiting a half hour for the younger boy, sat on the couch with his eyes glued to his driveway. He doesn’t give Harry a chance to  turn off his car, flying past his mother, taking a quick glance at the mirror in the foyer—he might, _might_ be wearing a charcoal grey jumper that fits him three times too big—and slamming the door behind him.

He doesn’t even blush, running out the door like a madmen the second the old, clunky car pulls up, looking a bit desperate. Harry’s small, sure smile stops the embarrassment. Once in the car, Louis leans over, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips, testing. He pulls back and looks him in the eye, hopes that Harry can read the question that lingers behind his clear blues.

_Do you want this? Do you want me?_

Harry doesn’t nod. He doesn’t smile, either. Instead, he tugs on the collar of Louis’ (borrowed) knit jumper and pulls him closer. He beams, then—all big, white teeth and deep, hollow dimples and soft, cherry lips—and his eyes travel from Louis’ lips, up to his eyes, and then back down again, and Louis knows right away, smiling back against said lips, trying to contain the bubble of glee inside of him.

After a minuet, Harry breaks their kiss, pulling back out of the driveway. Louis’ eye catches the drapes in his living room flinch back, and he can’t be too surprised; his mum is truly nosy.  “Did you sleep?” he asks instead, pulling on the bags of his eyes in the mirror.

“No,” Harry admits with a sheepish smile. “I can tell you didn’t either, you look tired.”

By the time they pull up to the college, the lot is mainly filled. They drive through rows, looking for a car space, and all of Louis’ warm, calm energy flies out the window as soon as Harry’s car stops. Louis watches as Drew, Liam, and a few of their friends laugh in the spot across from them. Great.

Louis’ exhale is shaky. “We had to park here?”

Harry just shrugs, collected as always. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” He turns and looks at Louis, eyes raking from his feet to his fringe, causing the smaller boy to shiver under his heated gaze. “I like your jumper.”

“Thanks,” Louis laughs, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s comfy.”

“You ready?” Harry asks, but the question is loaded. It’s not just about getting out of the stupid car now; it’s much more. Louis nods, smiling reassuringly, and squeezes his hand. He gets out of the car slowly, Harry following his lead, eyes on the ground until he meets him at the boot of the car.

“What the _fuck_?”  Someone says harshly from behind them. Louis looks up automatically, eyes meeting Drew’s unintentionally. The dark blue eyes Louis used to love bounce angrily from his face to Harry’s, disbelief loud and clear.

He can’t stand the fury, and turns back Harry, who’s already holding a hand out. Louis latches onto it, cowering to his side and smiles privately; it’s done. With interlocking fingers, there is no way anyone can misinterpret their relationship, and that’s what Louis wants—what they _both_ want. They walk through the car lot without any words between them, eyes glued to the gravel, and around them a cloud of whispers and stares follow.

Louis is used to it; he first got it when he came out, then later when he started dating Drew, and then when he became footy captain. It makes him nervous when it comes to Harry, who has never had scrutiny similar to this, has never had people stop in their tracks and stare at him before. When he looks up, his stomach churns again, expecting remorse on Harry’s features, regret, mostly, but he’s surprised when the boy has a big, wide _grin_ on his face. He’s not even trying to hide it, and it might be the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen. It takes him a moment to realize his face mimics Harry’s and he can only clutch his hand tighter.

“You didn’t have to walk me to my locker, y’know,” Louis says quietly as he leans on it. Harry copies his pose, leaning on the locker next to his.

“I’ve been _told_ ,” the curly-haired boy admits, letting go of his hand so Louis can stuff his books inside, “that this is what normal people in normal relationships do.”

Louis rolls his eyes at that. “And what in the hell does Zayn know about normal people in normal relationships?”

Harry only smiles. “He does watch a lot of films.”

Louis presses himself to Harry’s body, wrapping his arms around the lad’s waist, looking up sweetly. “Thank you for the ride,” he whispers. _Thank you for sticking by my side_ , he means, and he knows Harry understands _._ They watch each other for a couple of seconds, completely lost in their own bubble, and Harry leans down to capture his lips. They hear someone gasp loudly, and then pull apart laughing, but don’t bother to find out who’s watching them.

 

Drew finds him in the library and Louis’ mouth goes dry at the fury behind his eyes. The blond lets his books fall onto Louis’ desk carelessly, the loud _thump_ echoing throughout the mostly-vacant room. Drew’s cologne makes him queasy, memories slapping him in the face, both good and bad, nostalgia, but it mainly makes him uneasy. How was it that at one point he would steal Drew’s cologne bottle and mist his stuff until everything was coated in his ex-boyfriend’s scent? That seems so long ago.

Louis cringes, “Uh, hey, Drew.” His voice is wary and weary at once, already tired of the conversation that has only just started.

The tall blond narrows his eyes. “How _could_ you?”

Louis laughs loudly at that, completely dry, and he lowers his voice once someone shushes him. If they were in a manga, Drew would have fire instead of eyeballs. “Don’t act like such a victim, Miller. You’re not so innocent, either.”

Drew looks down at the wooden table, finger delicately tracing invisible marks. “Are you—are you still going to Man U?”

Oh. The question catches him off guard; he hadn’t even thought about that, in all honesty. Months ago Louis had agreed to follow Drew to Manchester University and after that they were supposed to start their lives together, officially, like real, adult couples. Louis’ dream had never been Manchester, but he had no problem agreeing to it—the only reason he wanted to go was because of Drew, and now it’s the opposite.

“I don’t—I don’t think so, I don’t know.”

“I’ll miss you, then, if you don’t go. I’ll miss you.”

Louis has to look away. Why now? Why is he asking all these questions now, months after their humiliating break up? 

There was a time when he couldn’t picture his future without Drew, a time where his whole life revolved around the blond. He didn’t think the day where that would end would come, but it did, and it was hard, but he’s okay now. Because his life never _did_ revolve completely around him, Louis was just under a fog.

After some time, Louis never smiled with Drew anymore. Not after sex, not after cuddles, not after dates, not even after little kisses. If you don’t end up smiling after you kiss someone, couldn’t it be that you’re kissing the wrong person? And what does it mean when you’re smiling _while_ kissing someone, too, because when he’s with Harry, he only ever wants to smile.

When he looks up, Drew is staring at him with glassy, blue eyes, the fire completely burned out. He always thought he got lost in those eyes, but boy, was he wrong. Maybe he was never lost; maybe he was just looking and looking for something that he never did find. He gets blissfully lost now in Harry’s eyes and the way he looks at him; in Harry’s voice and the way he says his name; the way he feels so little and so immensely safe in Harry’s strong arms; the way he gets completely lost in Harry’s warm kisses, and he never wants to be found again.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Louis asks exasperated. “Why fucking _now_? We haven’t spoken in months; you hardly even look at me. I don’t understand why you’re acting like a-a victim.” Louis knows why, of course. It’s obvious why.

“Baby,” Drew starts, desperate, and Louis cringes at term of endearment. “Louis, _Styles_? Styles, really? You know I fucking hate that cunt, so why him? Is it to try and get back at me?”

“No, I—“

“First you fucking cheat on me and now Styles?”

Louis can’t look at him. He doesn’t have to tell him that the two are mutually exclusive, that it was Styles that he cheated with. Drew has never been dumb. He can feel the heat on his face, and flinches in surprise as the blond stands up in haste and slams the chair to the desk with his foot. He wants to apologize, but Drew is already fuming out of the library, and no, Louis isn’t sorry for gaining Harry, he physically can’t.

>>>> 

_Brooooooooo. Party at Greg’s tomorrow x :)_ _  
_

_No,_ is Louis’ instant reply. _No fucking way_. :) _  
_

Zayn doesn’t bother replying back, and for a moment there he thinks he got his way, until Harry’s phone vibrates.  “I’m not going,” Louis says before Harry picks his mobile up. Is a night in with his possible-boyfriend such a bad idea? To him, curling up around Harry in his cosy bed with Netflix, chocolate biscuits, and tea sounds like heaven.

Harry smirks and falls back onto the bed besides him, unlocking his mobile. “Why don’t you want to go?”

“All my friends, in one single place,” Louis shrugs. He continues sketching a little stickman figure on the back of one of Harry’s sketchpads he picked up from the floor. “And you know Greg, right? Everyone loves Greg, hence _everyone_ will be there.” He rolls onto his back, dropping the pencil to ground and lays his head on Harry’s defined abs. “Jell-O shots, keg stands, dry humping everywhere you turn... no thanks.”

Harry hums and runs his fingers through Louis’ hair. “C’mon, my friends from the city will go.” _The city_ , as in the north part of their small conurbation, the rougher area, their college’s rival.

Louis sits up at that, legs crossing, and smiles at the long-limbed boy all spread out. “I _do_ want to meet your friends, Harold.” He wants to meet everyone who was at the skate park that glorious day, especially the one with the purple hair. He seemed fun.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry croaks out, shifting his eyes and picking up Louis’ abandoned drawing pad. He’s uncertain, and that makes Louis frown. He wants to be good enough for Harry’s mates, wants to be funny enough and wild enough, and what if Harry thinks he’s not any of those things? What if he thinks his friends won’t like Louis?

 

An hour later, Louis is snapping his hips forward, fingers gripping at Harry’s curls. Harry’s mouth is pure nirvana, warm and wet, lips like red, puffy clouds. He’s coming down his throat, still fucking his mouth as he rides out his orgasm, toes curling against the hard, wood floors, fingers clutching painfully at dark locks. When he pulls away, Harry is climbing to his feet with shaky legs, lips glossy and tender, and Louis can’t stop himself from tugging him down on top of his body.

He loves the taste of himself on those sweet lips, could kiss them all day long if he could. “Shit,” he breathes out against Harry’s jaw, “You’re so fucking good at that, I— _fuck_.” He lets himself be pulled up to the centre of the bed and sighs in glee when Harry wraps his arms around his waist, Louis’ fingers going to message at the boy’s red scalp. He should feel bad, but he knows exactly how much Harry loves it.

“There’s a word for this,” Harry speaks, voice broken and raw. Louis did that to him. “ _Cafun_ _é_. It means _running your fingers through your lover’s hair_. It’s Brazilian Portuguese, I think.”

“Running your fingers through your lover’s hair..,” Louis repeats slowly. He looks up at Harry with a smile, “Lover, huh?”

Harry’s lips turn upward. “Lover.”

It’s silent again. There’s no music playing, the only sounds coming from the world outside the room and their synchronizing breaths. Louis thinks it’s perfect, still playing with the soft, messy strands in his fingers.

“Um,” Harry starts, “maybe we shouldn’t go to that party.”

Louis pulls away. He suddenly feels too naked, too bare, _cold_ , next to him. He scrambles from the bed in search of clothes. He picks up a pair of pants that aren’t his, too tight on the arse and thighs, and keeps looking for a shirt. “I thought you wanted to go,” he says in monotone.                

“I thought _you_ didn’t,” Harry snaps back.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

Louis bites down on his lips and pulls a clean shirt from Harry’s closet, a black one with bold yellow stripes. “Okay, why not?” he asks finally, pulling on the shirt.

“My friends, basically, I,” he sounds uncertain, like earlier before. “My friends are different, yeah? A lot different than you-your friends, people you know. I’m not proud of some of the shit I got into with them, and like, a lot of them still do that shit.”

Louis climbs back into the bed with that, pondering. He knows that Harry’s friends being different than him isn’t something to be surprised at, or mull over, because fuck, how different are Harry and Louis themselves? Yin and Yang, sun and moon. Louis scoots on his knees until he’s right in front of him and presses a kiss on his shoulder, fingers going around to touch the crucifix hanging from his neck.

Harry’s body quickly relaxes, back going loose. “Y’know, I think we _should_ go to that party. My mates want to meet you.”

Louis grins, pressing kisses up his neck.  “You told them about me?”

He can feel the bobbing of Harry’s Adam’s apple, “They know about you.”

Louis shifts until he’s straddling Harry’s thighs, and the boy’s arms wrap around his petite waist instantly, pulling him closer. “Are you done waiting yet?”

“Waiting for what, exactly?”

“Please,” Louis scoffs, “you and I both know it’s all you think about, Harold.” Harry’s lips find his in a matter of short seconds, reaffirming his suspicions, gripping tightly at his hips. The younger lad tugs down at the striped shirt covering his body, mouth meeting the visible skin there, biting down and licking over soothingly. “You’re a fucking tease,” he gasps when Harry bites down on his left nipple.

Harry flips him over, so Louis’ lying underneath his body, panting. “You want me to stop teasing, Lou?”

He’s serious and Louis nods, unable to look away from the hunger in his eyes and the red of his lip and the way he said _Lou_ , like he’s been saying it for years instead of a few hours. Louis nods again, eyes closing as Harry peppers kisses onto his stomach, down to his hip bones. He lifts his hips up when he’s being shrugged out of his pants and then Harry’s mouth is on him again, gentle and patient.

 

The relief is physical, his body tensing and relaxing all at once; it is what he’s been waiting months for. While the relief is physical, he’s astounded and confused when his eyes form moisture and there are tears running down his flushed face when Harry finally enters him again. Harry brushes the stray tears away with sweet, calloused fingers, and they watch each other, each other’s bodies, how they’re responding to one another.

They’re both buzzing with excitement and release and _finally_. Louis watches as Harry enters him again and again with amazement, and he’s never felt this way, has never felt so damn connected with someone, has never felt whole like this before. It’s better than what he remembered, it’s much better than their first time together all those months back.

As he lays his head on Harry’s sticky chest, he knows why the latter wanted to wait. He knows why it _was_ such a big deal, why they needed to wait until they were both ready. He feels Harry in his veins, travelling back and forth besides his blood, and it’s creepy and wonderful all at once. He never wants this to stop, never wants this to go away, never wants _Harry_ to stop.

He wants to be in Harry’s arms all the time, engulfed by his warmth and scent. He wants to hear his heartbeat as they go to sleep every night, Louis pressed up against his chest. He wants to hold his hand everyday during college and out of it, too, when shopping and in the cinema and just lying on the bed together, sketching and reading. He wants to wake up in Harry’s bed every damn morning, watching as the boy smiles in confusion, eyes blinking back the sleep. He wants to go to sleep in Harry’s bed, by his side, limbs entangled, every night, too.

He knows why Harry wanted to wait, and now he can’t help but agree. They’re both in too deep. How did he ever regret waking up in Harry’s bed at one point?

>>>> 

Louis and Harry are good mates—great, even—so of course they humour Zayn when he tells them he’ll give them a ride to Greg’s party. The quiffed boy has been offering rides left and right ever since he finally got his license during the summer, and who are Louis and Harry to deny him a little dose of happiness? But of course, riding with Zayn also means arriving late to the party and having to park a whole street away.

“Isn’t this great?” Zayn grins manically at them, doing a little dance once they’re on Greg’s turf and the music is loud and thumping. “Tonight is gonna be great—anything could happen! I can feel it in my bones.”

The cause of Zayn’s excitement is also the cause of Louis’ anxiety. While Zayn has always been supportive of Louis and Harry’s relationship—of Louis and Harry separately, too—he’s been acting strange as of late, and Louis can’t figure out what it is. When he asks Harry, the latter frowns and denies knowing anything, concern etched on his face, and Louis knows he’s telling the truth.

There’s a small group of teenagers standing in front of the brick house, passing around a joint. They’re laughing at something Louis can’t hear, but he recognizes a few of them—like the Irish lad—from the skate park and a few other parties. He watches with curious eyes as Zayn stomps over to them in his dirty, black hightops, instantly curling around the violet-haired Irish boy with the rosy cheeks. They’re all dressed like Harry—except for the white-blonde girl in skinny leather jeans and a low-cut top—with dark clothes and tight jeans, snapbacks covering their eyes.

He wishes he could say he’s not nervous as he and Harry approach them, but fuck it, he is. These are Harry’s _mates_ , the people who know him best and watched him grow up, and the people who apparently got into the same bad shit as he did at one point. Zayn turns around, watching them come closer, while whispering in Irish lad’s ear.

“Where’ve you been at, H?” a tall, lanky one asks, the one with the thin, blonde girl settled at his side, puffing on a short jay before passing it over to Harry.

“Uh, this is Louis,” he says in response, taking a quick hit, letting it settle in his lungs, before exhaling out his mouth.

“Okay,” another boy laughs, nodding, and looking at Louis up and down with appreciative eyes.

“Louis,” Harry waves a hand towards his mates, “This is Tom, Louise—“

“Lou, ya dickhead!”

“—Ed, Jaymi, and that thing right there next to Zayn is what we call a Niall.”

At that moment, Zayn kisses Niall wet on the lips and grins at them. “I need a drink!” he exclaims before turning to wander into the house. It only takes from the kiss to Zayn walking away for Louis to place Niall in the context of his best mate’s life. They’ve been friends for years, but started hooking up since last year. Louis’ heard enough about Niall and his _proud, Irish_ peen that it’s a bit hard to look at him in his rosy red face.

“Think we’re gonna have to take a cab home,” Louis says as Zayn dances his way into the house. Harry laughs and hands him over the joint which he takes gladly. “So,” he says around his cloud of dark smoke, turning to face the group, “how do you all know each other?”

His forehead wrinkles in confusion at the rambunctious laughter that follows his question. The dynamic of Harry’s group interests him to no end, all of them completely in tune with each other and their movements and looks. They’ve definitely been friends for years now. Louis is completely aware that he’s an outsider, that he probably won’t ever understand any of these inside jokes that they have, but even then, they’re all pleasant and welcoming, and with every passing minuet, Harry’s smile gets a bit wider and his dimples get a bit deeper, and his grip on Louis’ waist a bit tighter.  It’s the first he has seen Harry so comfortable and relaxed, so—so at home.

“Harry’s like my brother,” Niall says around a crooked smile. “He lived with me after his mum left, until Gemma’s fit arse came back from uni.”

Oh. Louis expects Harry to tense up, withdraw from himself, or show that Niall has said too much, but he only laughs his beautiful dorky laugh and calls Niall a twat. His eyes are so lively, it’s like seeing a whole new person.

Harry looks down at Louis and pull him in tighter by his waist, grinning. “These arseholes are the reason why I was always in trouble.”

Niall lets a cackle out at that, shaking his head. The whole group seems to disagree with Harry’s statement, groaning. “Fucking bullshit,” the lilac-blond laughs.

“Oh,” Ed hands an arm around Louis’ shoulder, “the stories we could tell ya.”

Harry pulls Louis out of Ed’s reach and grabs his hand, waving a V at his friends, pulling them towards the door. When they’re reaching the steps, someone calls out Harry’s name. Niall is jogging up to them with glassy blue eyes.

“Hey, uh, H,” Niall’s eyes flit between the two of them. “Just a heads up, yeah? Nick and Caroline are inside.”

Harry doesn’t react, but Louis can see the tightness around his eyes. “Thanks,” he mutters, nodding at Niall before pulling the door open.

Louis waits at the door. He awaits an explanation, wants to know who Nick and Caroline are, and why Harry was warned. The taller boy only holds the door open wider, gesturing at Louis to go inside, small smile playing on his face.

It’s hot inside, packed with sweaty bodies and too much alcohol. It’s exactly how Louis had imagined it; there’s a keg stand contest going on in the middle of the dining room, the living room acts like a dance floor to all the college kids grinding their arses against crotches to the beat of some fast-paced rap song. There’s even a blow-and-suck game going on in the kitchen, something he hasn’t seen since _Clueless_.

He keeps close to Harry as they make their way in, throwing their jackets at Greg who grins hazily and stumbles up the stairs. They hold hands tightly as they walk towards the kitchen, Harry pressed up close behind him. They pull apart to mix their drinks— whiskey for Harry, vodka and coke for Louis.

It’s a bit weird, being so close to Harry at a party. They’re always so far apart, at the ends of the room, and now to have him pressed to his side, Harry’s arm swung around his shoulder—it’s something that Louis doesn’t have a name for, but it feels so much similar to relief. It’s magnificent.

 When Stan and Oli are in the middle of chatting to Louis about the football team, a tall man with an incredibly high quiff and a woman with dirty blonde hair make an appearance, stumbling in front of Harry. Harry’s in the middle of mixing Louis another drink, startled by their sudden appearance. Something in Louis makes haste excuses to his mates and meet Harry by the bar.

He doesn’t say anything as he walks up to his date, wrapping his arms around his small middle instantly, pushing their bodies together. He doesn’t know why jealously flares in the pit of his stomach at the site of the man so close to Harry, he doesn’t like it, though, he’s sure of that. Louis doesn’t like the way the long-faced man watches Harry so carefully and sneers down at Louis.

“You’re the footy player, then,” the lad says, looking at Louis up and down through beady eyes. The girl besides him snorts into her cup.

“Nick,” Harry warns.

Louis tries to keep his voice levelled, fire rising through him. “I was the football player,” he corrects.

“So what are you now?”

Louis shrugs, “Not sure,” he answers honestly.

Nick laughs dryly. “No, I think I know what you are.”

Caroline rolls her eyes next to him, handing Nick a beer. “Calm down.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps back.

Louis looks up at Harry, quietly asking why the lad is being so hostile towards him. They’ve never met before, has never heard his name leave Harry or Zayn’s mouths. Harry looks angry, beautiful lips turned downwards, a furrow between his eyebrows.

“Louis!” Greg turns up from out of nowhere, eyes widening as he takes in the small group. “Harry! Nick, Caroline! All my favourite people in one place,” he slurs. “Whoa, isn’t this awkward? Harry with his new boyfriend _and_ his old girlfriend, and then there’s Nick.”

Louis squirms underneath Greg’s arm, throwing it off, the latter being oblivious to the tension between the four of them.  Greg pats him on the back before turning to the bar, instantly chatting with Stan. Louis isn’t really sure what to think anymore. If Caroline is Harry’s ex, then why is Nick the one acting like a complete twat?

He hasn’t met Harry’s eyes, pulling away from him completely. He’s annoyed. He gestures between Harry and Nick, completely irate that he has to speak the words, embarrassed that he has to be the one who clears things up. “So what about you two, then?”

Harry bites his lip, shaking his head no. His green eyes are filled with guilt, and that makes Louis look away, can’t stand the envy and irrational anger setting in his system. He has no right to be mad, clearly this is an old flame, something before he came along but. He hates the simple thought of _anyone_ touching Harry the way he does, can’t stand it.

Nick’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. “We just fucked,” he bites.

It’s quiet, then. The party drowns out in Louis’ ears, and the blood in his body travels north until it fills his head. He looks at Nick, all tall and sharp and angular, and he knows himself, short, and curvy, and young. He thinks about that man touching Harry, touching Harry and his smooth skin, using his plump lips, looking into his wide, bright eyes, and Louis’ blood boils. He feels both rage and illogical empathy rush through him. Louis knows exactly how he feels, but the need to get rid of Nick is stronger than anything.

Nick leans down, drink sloshing onto the floor, until his mouth is next to Louis’ ear. Somewhere in the background, Harry growls something out, but Louis can’t be too sure. “I heard you begged on your knees so Drew Miller would take you back,” Nick says lowly, “but he was tired of dating a _slut_.”

Louis pulls back, burned. “I didn’t know about you,” he says firmly, watching the way Nick’s face falls. “I’ve never even heard your name before, but it doesn’t matter. Don’t ever speak to me like that, you cunt.”

Harry tries to pull him back into his reach, but Louis snaps back. He needs a minuet, just a minuet by himself. He grabs his beer from the countertop and leaves them behind, hiding in the crowd. Greg’s house is gigantic, and from years of partying in it, Louis and Zayn know of a few hiding spots, like the upper tier on the third floor no one knows about.

The balcony is empty, just like he expected, with white, fairy Christmas lights still hung up. From up here, he can see in every direction. He can almost see his house, too, streets over. He squints to see the city far in the background, and settles on trying to clear his mind. It’s a struggle.

There’s heavy footsteps behind him all the sudden, and the thought of having to speak to someone right now makes him tense. It’s Liam’s smiling face that surprises him, and his body relaxes instantly. “Hi, Li,” his voice breaks, and he turns back to the city.

Liam doesn’t speak, just puts an arm around his shoulder, and after a few moments, Louis lets himself lean into the touch, leaning his head against the broad chest. This is the first time he’s spoken to Liam—or any of the lads he used to call a mate from the footy team—and what may be forever, and he’s missed him, he has. Louis knows Liam Payne didn’t end up here with him on accident, he knows Liam would care enough to follow him up here.

Louis shifts away, leaning his elbows on the barrier. “It’s like I got thrown into a pack of lions, or something. I didn’t know—I had no clue what to do. That’s what I miss about Drew, y’know, I always knew what to expect. Just that one thing.”

“You also looked so bored everyday, I was worried you were either going to kill yourself or try for Drew, first.”

Louis’ eyes crinkle when he smiles. “You’re bored, too, Li.”

Liam shrugs. “Can’t deny that, true. Are you gonna tell me what happen or do I really have to ask?”

 

“Yeah, Zayn’s mentioned him,” Liam says once Louis is through with talking. “Says he’s a proper pretentious twat, but it never sounded like Harry and that lad were serious.”

“ _What.”_ Louis doesn’t mean for it to come out as harsh and scandalous as it does, but fuck. He feels his face heat up, “What?”

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Liam guesses, frowning. He looks crestfallen, pouting. “He didn’t tell you about us?”

Liam sounds just as surprised as Louis feels. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts and process everything. “Uh, I knew about last year, but—but whatever is going on right between you and Z? I had no idea about that,” he clarifies.

Liam’s dejected face makes Louis’ heart clench; the burly boy with the buzz cut is one of his favourite people, and it may not have been so in the beginning of college, but he loves him dearly now.  He’s always felt as though Liam understood him, understood all his layers and his unhappiness, maybe felt that way, too. He still does.

“Just because he didn’t tell me about—that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you, Li.” Louis has no idea of Zayn actually does like Liam, has feelings for him. He feels clueless, shocked, hurt. Most of all, betrayed.

Liam shrugs. “And Zayn not telling you about Nick doesn’t mean he’s not a good mate to you, or that he doesn’t care.”

Louis looks back at the city. When will everyone stop making excuses for Zayn? He looks down at the garden below them, watches with a cringe as a bloke gets sick in a shrub and a girl taps her foot impatiently besides him.

“Can I ask you something,” he asks timidly.

“’Course, mate.”

“How is D—he? How is he, though, really?”

Liam breathes out slowly. “He’s okay, I guess. He took it really hard, all that shit. It’s weird, with Nathan and all, being where you used to be—but Nathan’s good for him. Doesn’t let Drew get away with shit.”

Louis laughs despite the cold that settles over him. He doesn’t know Nathan very well, has only seen him around the hallways of their college, but he remembers the glassy eyes the younger boy would sprout when Drew was anywhere near him. “That’s good to hear.”

“He’s still not over you, Lou.”

Louis settles his hands over his face, elbows on the concrete. “He—he came up to me in the library. Said he missed me, talked about uni.”

Liam makes an agreeing noise. “Almost broke his hand after that, twat punched a wall.”

Louis’ shoulders sag under the weight of Liam’s statement, but he remembers that it’s not only Louis’ to bear anymore. Louis isn’t the only one involved in this mess. “I should go find Harry, he might want to talk about—about whatever the hell that was earlier.”

“C’mon,” Liam agrees, sliding the door open.

“You and Zayn,” Louis starts as they make their way down the long staircase. “How long have you been...doing what you’re doing?”

Liam replies behind him, “A few months. We fuck, but fight even more. We fight about the drugs, mostly.”

Louis knows how he feels; he’s been there too often, arguing over Zayn’s choice of death.  He sighs and goes to open his mouth when they step into the living room and his breath catches in his throat. Drew’s back is to them, hands clenched into fists, muscles flexed, Louis can see Harry perfectly from where he stands in front of his ex-boyfriend.

“You fucking dick!” Drew roars and everyone stills, the music is turned off quickly.

Harry’s eyes meet Louis over Drew’s shoulder. With his heart racing, Louis remembers that he didn’t tell Harry about Drew in the library, that he knows everything now, that he knows it was Harry he slept with. He doesn’t look angry, Harry that is. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking Louis by surprise.

They never get fist fights right on the telly. Real fights aren’t choreographed like that, there’s hardly any ducking; it’s messy and rough, and you never know what will happen in the end. Who will win and who will lose. Sometimes there isn’t a good guy or a bad guy, just two guys Louis happened to love before and now. Witnessing a fight is like watching the fuse burn down on a stick of dynamite. It’s tense, crawling slowly and quickly all at once, and then it suddenly moves in fast forward.

Drew swings with a left hook and Harry’s reflexes are quick like a cat’s, shuffling backwards, missing him. When the party-goers crowd around the two lads, shouting in encouragement, Louis’ view is blocked, and not even on his tippy toes can see spot Harry. Liam pushes past him to grab Drew and the crowd parts like the Red Sea when someone gets a glance at Louis, and then everyone is looking at Louis.

Harry is being blocked by Niall and Tom, and Liam has a hold on Drew, who quickly shakes him off. There’s blood pouring down Drew’s nose rapidly, staining his light blue jumper, and he tries to wipe it off, glaring at Louis as he walks by and out of the room. When Louis looks for Harry, he and Niall and Tom are gone, too.

People eventually stop staring at Louis like he’s grown another head, and drift away for more drinks, voices both excited about the fight and disappointed about it’s early ending. Louis can’t move, frozen once again. He stares at the blood splatters staining the hardwood floors, the only indication of what happened moments earlier, of it all being real.

He lifts his eyes, only to meet Nathan’s, Drew’s new boyfriend. The boy is in tears, but there’s something written on his face that Louis can’t explain. He doesn’t know what it means or what it could be. Fear, devastation—resignation. They stare at one another until Nathan shakes his head and walks out, behind Drew.

Zayn’s arms are around him in an instant. He smells sweet and musky, Dolce and Gabbana and weed, and when Louis glances over at him, the lad looks rightly rueful. Harry must’ve told him about Nick. Zayn doesn’t apologize, he never does, says it’s not his _thing_ , but how Louis wishes he would right now. He needs an apology.

They stand together in silence, watching as people laugh and grind and drink until their minds are no longer existent. It’s all too much for Louis, everything. This night, this month—the year has just started, but already it’s filled with drama. He takes a deep breath and tries to get the redundant words _coward_ and _slut_ from his brain. “I need to get outta here.”

Zayn doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk out. When Louis looks over at him, Zayn’s honey eyes are darting around, in search for someone, and it dawns on Louis quickly. “You’re fucking Liam,” he murmurs, and on another day, in another situation, it could’ve been funny. Louis can’t depend on his humour for this, not now.

Zayn’s swiftness falters, but he keeps going, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. “Okay, yeah, I am, Lou. But, like, I don’t really like him or anything like that,” he’s quick to say, smiling.

Louis doesn’t smile back. It hurts, watching Zayn. It hurts Louis, and it’s sad. There’s something so incredibly, profoundly poignant about his best mate’s inability to allow anyone close enough to break through his walls. Louis wonders if this is why no one can ever get the whole truth from Zayn Malik, if this is why no one can see each other clearly for who they are. If everyone knew everything, if everyone knew the truth, then they would all see each other without any fog, and they would all see Zayn as he truly is.

They hurry to get their coats from upstairs. Louis watches as he slips on his designer leather jacket, the one he loves for all the small, hidden pockets. Louis knows it belonged to Zayn’s dad, saw it on him once, myriads of years back.

“Liar,” Louis says quietly. “You’re lying,” he accuses.

Zayn visibly stiffens but doesn’t turn. “I should’ve told you about Nick.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, “that’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t do that to Liam—it’s not fair to treat him that way just because he’s not what you had in mind when it came to the right guy.”

Zayn turns around, fists clenched, eyes flashing. “Says the knob that dated the wrong person for four years,” he snaps.

 “So, then I say it from experience, Zayn.”

Zayn’s hands slips into a pocket inside and he pulls out a pink, bedazzled flask, taking a big gulp of whatever is inside. “What the hell is your problem, mate? I said I was bloody sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I am.” His eyes are wet with anger and he stomps out brooding, door slamming behind him.

They rarely fight. They hardly ever argue, but when they do, it’s always because Louis said something or got too close to something Zayn doesn’t want examined in his life. Louis gets his coat and Harry’s denim jacket with a hole on one sleeve, and finds everyone else on the porch.

Zayn is pressed tightly against Niall’s lithe body, pointedly ignoring him. Harry—Harry has a bruise blossoming under his right eye and his knuckles are raw and swollen, but other than that, he’s physically okay. Louis doesn’t make an attempt to go closer to the boy, doesn’t want to see the violet that is quickly forming up close, so he stays put by the door.

Niall walks away, Zayn still close to his side. Liam must be with Drew still, not that he would want to walk into this crowd right now, anyway. The rest of Harry’s friends walk off the porch too, waving their goodbyes, quiet than when the party started. It’s usually always the opposite.

When they’re gone, safe in their cars, Louis turns to Harry, who’s watching him. He resists the urge to jump into his strong arms, press kisses against the blemished skin. “Alright?”

 Harry nods slowly, flexing his hand. “I’m sorry about Nick, I—,” he frowns deeper. “I didn’t want you to feel any worse than you already did, Lou.”

“I’ll give you that,” Louis says. “But you can’t do that, Haz. You can keep things from me and call it protection. I mean—what else don’t I know about you? What other things are you keeping from me?”

Harry’s exhale is broken and he looks off to the side. “I-I’ve been arrested three times,” he stammers, “Two for trespassing and one for vandalism. My dad—my dad, he died four years ago. My mum couldn’t handle it and she left soon after. I—,” his voice breaks, “I hated her for it, resented her, but I don’t anymore. She lives in France now, I think, Paris.”

Harry looks back at Louis and the latter works hard to keep his composure.

“And Nick, we were never anything serious. Just a drunken fling, not really my type, anyway. As for Caroline, she was never my real girlfriend. More like a beard, actually, for a few months after I realized I am gay.”

Louis smiles at that, still a bit shaken, trying to fight back the moisture in his eyes. It only takes Harry five short steps to get to him. He pats the back of Louis’ thighs with his hands, and Louis jumps, wrapping his legs tightly around Harry’s middle, arms encircling his neck. They stay like that for a few minuets, wrapped up in each other, in the quiet outside. Louis backs up to kiss him, face damp, and the shift makes him aware of Harry’s body.

“How in the hell are you hard right now?”

Harry laughs wetly, leaning down to kiss his lips, hands griping his arse tighter.

“Let’s go home,” he whispers against Harry’s lips. He puts Louis down and takes his hand, leading them away from the last party of Greg’s they’ll ever attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos if you enjoyed the story and would like to see more. Comments make my day! Until next time.


	5. Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and bookmarked! Means a lot to me :) 
> 
> And please remember that the italics in the first part mean it's a flashback. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

We’re Chasing All Those Stars

 

 

>>>>

 

_There’s blood. Crimson drops fall onto his denim shorts, dripping from his elbow, but it’s nothing too serious, nothing that requires more than a wince and maybe a band-aid. He’ll probably forgo the band-aid; doesn’t want to be seen as a wuss who can’t handle a bit of blood. His mum, on the other hand, his mum will be proper angry with him; loathes skateboarding and everything that comes with it, especially the falls, the scrapes, the bruises._

_The only thing that’s getting Harry irate is that he can’t get the flip right. He’s been working day and night on it—sneaking out of his room and heading to the empty rooftop of his building, where it’s quiet and concrete at midnight—and he just—he can’t get it. Harry doesn’t understand why it’s not working for him, why all his mates have it down to a pat. All his friends are thinner, however, they’re in the process of loosing their baby fat, sprouting like trees, and Harry. Well, Harry is still chubby, baby fat all around, and still shorter than his mum. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever grow; maybe he’ll stay this height forever._

_After his third fall, he gets off his sore bum, glances furiously at the blood smeared on the ramp, and whips his board to the ground. He goes to lean against the metal link chain, watching his mates fuck around and skate. He breathes hard, the sun is setting around them, and watches as Aiden Grimshaw lands perfectly._

_Sure, he’s right frustrated with his lack of skills when it comes to skateboarding, but that’s not all. There’s something deeper in him; a rage that sits unwelcomed in the pit of his stomach, something that has nothing to do with the dozens of falls he’s taken in the last two hours. His conversation with Drew Miller is a mantra in his mind; he can’t stop replaying it over and over again, and that just makes his blood boil._

_Two days ago, a Saturday to be exact, they were watching Zayn and Louis muck around with their respective boards, both lads having a go at a Nollie. Drew and Harry were quiet, sitting at the edge of the ramp. Louis looked beautiful, as always, with golden skin and his hair falling onto his face, eyes squinty and lit up as Zayn cursed at him playfully._

_“I like him,” Harry admitted. When arriving in Doncaster, he made no secret that he fancied the same sex. It’s better that way, get it out in the open, let those who are bothered leave right away instead of later, instead of disappointing him._

_“Yeah, he’s alright,” Drew said, shrugging. Harry didn’t know about Drew, about his preferences; they’re only fourteen, most kids their age are still clueless, confused._

Yeah, he’s alright _, doesn’t leave his head, not now. How did Drew go from_ Yeah, he’s alright _to giving Louis a shitty bundle of lilies from Tesco the next day? He angrily said this to Zayn, right after he found out, and that’s when the golden-eyed boy probably figured out Harry has a thing for Louis, too. Drew kissed Louis in the canteen today, two days after saying that Louis was just_ alright, _everyone watching with wide eyes._

_Including Harry, of course. His elbow is really starting to hurt. He backs off the fence when Drew struts in, looking like the odd man out in his yellow polo and purposely ripped Hollister jeans. Harry picks up his discarded board from the ground and calmly walks towards the lad, chatting peacefully with Aiden._

_“Ay, bro,” Drew punches his arm with no force behind when he greets them. He always sounds like such a dick when he talks like that, like something he copied from BET. Harry looks down at their shoes in thought. Drew’s Supras are clean, while Harry’s are dirty, scuffed, worn._

_“Why’d you do that, man?” Harry asks quietly, interrupting Aiden’s cheerful banter. Drew is taller than him, by mere inches, but he’s thin, gaining lean muscle, but right now none of that matters; Drew has trouble looking at him in the eyes. Aiden backs up, making some excuse about practicing more, and leaves them be._

_Drew laughs, but his smile is careful, cautious. “Do what, Haz?”_

_Harry doesn’t speak, shaking his head—_ bullshit _. His blood is moving rapidly through his veins like lava; Drew knows exactly what he’s talking about._

_The blond boy shrugs, looking away. “Don’t be such a pussy ‘bout it, Harry. It’s not that big of a deal; he’s just some lad, anyway.”_

_Harry’s fingers are gripping his board so tightly, they’re white with pressure, throbbing. “Then why did you do that?”_

_He laughs again, but this time it’s in annoyance. Harry can tell he’s getting exasperated. “What the hell? Do you like, fucking love him or something, Harry?”_

_Harry narrows his eyes at that. “No, I—“_

_“Have you even_ talked _to him?” Drew asks in a patronizing, sweet voice. Like Harry is some clueless child, lost in the supermarket, searching for his mummy. “_ Have _you ever even said a word to him?”_

_Harry’s board hits the ground again with a loud whack and his fist hits Drew’s round face._

_> >>> _

_Zayn tells him that Drew has been going around, showing off his black eye, saying he got it from his older brother while they were play fighting. It annoys him, but at least he didn’t say shit, like how he got it from skateboarding or something similar. He can’t even skate, fucking fake._

_It’s not long after that Harry meets Niall, who works at his favourite record shop a few shops down from the skate park, and he stops hanging with the kids from his school. Niall becomes his mentor in many ways, even if he’s only a year older than him. Niall teaches him everything; from where to buy paint without tipping anyone off, to how to fill with markers, to how to hide up to five cans on his person, to where to tag safely._

_Niall laughs at him when he gets his first tattoo, an unfilled star on the inside of his arm. Niall has no problem with him being gay, even admits that he agrees with Harry that boys can be fit, sometimes. He helps him talk to lads, how to successfully palm someone over their pants and get them off. Harry discovers that talking isn’t really all that essential when you want to hook up._

_At first, like amateurs, they bomb everything. There’s no skill or reason behind their work, and they’re simply teenagers being rebellious. After a few months, Harry starts developing his work, taking it serious. He starts to copy the style of other artists, works on his technique, his fading and shadowing and filling. His first train piece is absolute shit, but his new mates still come out in the ass crack of dawn, and watch it go by. He’s only fourteen and his piece is on a train, and that’s something._

_His father dies later that month and a few nights later, Harry breaks his wrist falling from a fence, thanking God that it wasn’t his right hand. By now, his mum wishes he would go back to skateboarding, even buys him a new board, which for weeks on end sits in a corner, collecting dust. He gets locked up in a youth detention institution twice in a few short months, but with the help of a good lawyer and plea deals, gets off easy._

_Both times, his defender mentions his dead father, asks for pity in regards of Harry, who’s apparently just a teen who got lost after the tragic passing of his only male parental figure. His mum is behind it, of course, no one else except his mates know about the death. His mum also says it’s his last chance, but at that time he doesn’t understand what the means, just figures she’s warning him he’ll get caught again, and maybe won’t get lucky anymore._

_Harry sneaks out that night. He sneaks out the next night and the next and the next, and after a week, he comes home in the early morning when the sun is just starting to come up, and she’s gone. His mum leaves a lot behind; a stocked fridge, unfinished paintings around their flat, a few colourful sundresses and strappy sandals in her wardrobe, half-used tubes of pink lipstick. He doesn’t know what to do with her shit, but can finds that he only cares for the silver crucifix splayed gently on his nightstand._

_When she said it was his last chance, he wishes she’d told him what she meant._

>>>> 

He gets smarter. He’s never been an idiot, always got good grades in school, paid attention, didn’t piss around too much. He gets more erudite about many, many things, like writing for example, and life, mainly. He knows that’s what growing up is about, learning from your mistakes, correcting time; they all do it. But sometimes shit happens and he slips up, makes a silly blunder and that’s why Gemma has rules on the fridge.

 She doesn’t like to call them rules, however, but that’s what they are. His only sibling has an easy-going view of life—she does own her own yoga studio in a flat below them, nevertheless. Des Styles always called her a bit of a hippie, a flower child, and it’s true; they used to tease each other a lot, they were never incredibly close, but present. They disagreed on everything and anything; Gemma has always had a liberal point of view and his dad was a bit more conservative; they argued over politics, birth control, music, anything.

The rules, or whatever, are written in bold, black marker on one of his sketching pads, and hung on the fridge by some banana magnets Gemma found in a charity shop in London.  They discuss— _not argue, Harry, we don’t argue, it doesn’t do anyone any good—_ about them quite often. Gemma loves a good debate almost as much as she loves berry-infused water and Emma Watson; she knows how to provoke him and get him to defend his position; knows him best out of anyone else, even Niall and Zayn.

  1. _Don’t Get Arrested. _



That one is a bit of a no brainer. Gemma added and moved that rule to the number one spot after she had to bail him out for the first time. Unlike the other rules, it’s red and written in caps with a water-based marker, the letters dripping down like the title of a horror movie.

  1. _No nudity of any kind outside your bedroom_.



They’re both guilty. It used to occupy the number one spot after Harry ran into a very naked Ashton, Gemma’s on and off again boyfriend, in the kitchen on early morning. Harry shouldn’t really complain, when he’s the one who loves to shed any and all clothes after a long, boring day at college; it’s a very gratifying feeling. Plus, he’s broken the rule twice in the last week with Louis. Oops.

  1. _No parties._



Harry’s fault for—no, wait, this one is definitely Zayn’s fault, who had left before the police showed up. Gemma, who at the time was away at some Bikram Yoga seminar in London was not too pleased to hear from the police.

  1. _BYOB!!!_



Harry doesn’t need to point this out to Niall, who’s snacking away on their crisps and drinking one of Gemma’s Coronas now. He knows, has been chewed out by the blue-haired girl many a times.

  1. _Keep your mobile charged and on you at all times. And fucking answer it_.



Harry’s fault, again.

  1. _Say what you mean_.



Gemma added this one after donating some of their father’s clothes to a thrift shop after months in storage.  Harry went mad, even though he gave his permission, said it was a splendid idea, blah blah blah. He’s working on this.

  1. _Hugs, not drugs! ❤️_



No pills, no powders, _none of that weird purple shit Lil Wayne is addicted to_. Weed is fine, but only on the rooftop, along with cigarettes. This one is for Zayn’s benefit.

  1. _________________



Eight remains blank. It’s been empty for several months now, but it’s only a matter of time before someone fills it in. When they add a rule, they automatically add another number below it, like admitting that one of them will fuck up again, like it’s expected, and it’s okay. More like they’re admitting _Harry_ will fuck up again.

Eight rules isn’t a lot; he really has a lot of freedom considering the shit he’s gotten himself into. Rule Number One is the one that keeps him grounded; the one that truly matters. Rule Number One keeps a can of spray paint out of his hands and his arse out of any serious trouble.

Writing is like—it’s an addiction. It’s not like any other dependence, not like Zayn’s need and compulsion, which takes the life out of him in many ways; Harry’s addiction brings him back to life. When there’s a paint spray can in his hand, he feels the most real, like the can is an extension of him, covering the surface with a thick substance.

He’s spent hours upon hours finding the perfect tips and the best brands and the ones that don’t leak. They’ve chased train yards and hopped fences, sometimes they’ve planned out their every step, but other times they winged it and found whatever works. He’s run from growling dogs, dodged security guards, and sometimes even police officers—not always successfully. Harry’s been in brutal fights that leave him bloody and seeing stars, he’s sold drugs and met some of the shadiest, most dangerous people, and he’s worn a bright orange jumpsuit.

 Harry’s a criminal. He’s a criminal first and an artist second, and although he’s trying hard to rid himself of the vandal inside, it’s—he misses it sometimes. A part of him feels incomplete without it. He fills up sketchbook after sketchbook, and he paints on the canvases Gemma places on the easel, but it feels— _wrong_. The paint brushes feel wrong in his hands, the paper lacks the permanence he yearns for, and the stains on his hands aren’t the right medium.

If he were a better person, he wouldn’t miss the notoriety as much as he does. He’s tried explaining that to Louis, but the words can’t merge together. Despite what everyone thinks, he’s not a player, he hasn’t slept with like, 400 girls or whatever that rumour was, and he’s not some weak, broken person. There’s nothing about him that needs to be fixed.

He’s just, well—he’s diffident. He doesn’t like people steering their noses in his business; he likes to keep his head down and his hood up and ignore them all, like he’s been doing since he was a kid. He’s never been able to ignore Louis Tomlinson, though. Never.

He’s watched him from the corner of his eye for the last four years. Zayn has always known, but they’ve—thankfully—never talked about it. Louis would pop up at a party looking fit as hell or find Zayn in Harry’s car after college, hotboxing, and Harry couldn’t even get out a simple _Hi_ without struggle, without blatant bitterness in his voice.  He didn’t speak to him directly for _years_ , and when they spoke at the skate park all those months back for the first time—well, they created a bit of a mess.

“Bro!” Niall calls out from the living room. “Haz, you gotta check this shit out! Sick!”

Harry clinks his spoon on the side of his cup and sits it down in the sink. The warmth from his tea instantly heats up his hands, a nice plus in the cool temperature of the flat. He tosses Niall’s backpack to the floor to take a seat, the bag emitting the muffled sound of rattling cans. The short boy is laughing at the telly, another episode of the Kardashians, crisp crumbs all over his printed tee and by his mouth.

Niall looks up to see Harry's unimpressed face. “What?”

“Why do you have to eat like a swine? You’re getting shit all over Gem’s couch.”

Niall rolls his eyes, ranting about he’s much more of a prissy when he gets dick on the daily. “Like, all you care about now is hygiene and flowers and arse.”

“I’ve always cared about hygiene,” Harry makes a pointed look at his mate’s mess. He turns back to the telly, where Kourtney is letting Khloe sniff her, ahem, lady bits. Do all Americans do that shit? “And I don’t care about flowers,” he mutters.

“Ooh, you should get Louis flowers! Girls love that shit,” Niall says with serious eyes.

Harry’s brow furrows—flowers? Does Louis want flowers? But he’s not a girl, anyway. “Louis is not a girl,” he voices his thoughts in annoyance.

“Eh,” Niall shrugs. “’S got a bum like Kim Kardashian. ‘M a bit jealous, mate.”

Flowers, then? That’s something he has never thought about. He’s never gotten flowers from any past boyfriends, much less given them. He’s never given or received gifts that didn’t come in a form of someone being on their knees. There’s always been that mutual understanding that anything with him was temporary, could leave as quickly as it came; there were never any dates or hand holding or meeting the parents, nothing like that.

He knows Louis is different, however. He knows Louis and knows that the boy _wants_ those cinema dates, and chocolates even though he complains about gaining weight, and he loves holding Harry’s hand, twisting it every which way, holding their palms against one another, comparing the contrast in their sizes. Harry finds that he doesn’t mind all that gushy, rom-com worthy stuff, and just thinking about the blue-eye beauty he gets to hold makes his stomach flipflop.

Niall huffs and brushes the crumps of his chest, scattering them on the hardwood floors. His face is pensive, uncharacteristically thoughtful, and Harry turns back to the telly as soon as he opens his big mouth. “Where’s Zayn been at? Haven’t seen his ugly mug in a while.”

He doesn’t mean today, or this week. Zayn and Niall—they’ve been doing this for years now, since Niall decided to try dick and liked it; it’s really simple—or it used to be, anyway—they would hook up, do their own thing, and eventually find their way back to each other. This time, it’s taking Zayn a lot longer to ditch his new lad. If Niall knew who it is...Harry doesn’t want to think about that.

“Oh, y’know Z,” Harry tries act nonchalant, but he can’t lie to save his life, much less lie to his best mate. He can’t lie to his about his _other_ best mate. It settles wrong in his bones. “He’s around, like always. Being a pain in the arse.”

“Fucking shit, H, you know that’s bullshit. Last time I saw him, we wouldn’t even give me a hug.”

Harry lies. He lies to Niall and it hurts, but Zayn would do it for him. Fuck, Zayn _has_ done it for him. “I don’t know, Ni. Maybe he’s doing pills again, I’m not sure.” He knows for a fact that Zayn is doing pills again, and that he’s fucking Liam Payne on a daily basis, and his stomach drops.

Niall is silent, pulling out his mobile, most likely to text Zayn, and Harry turns back to watching shit reality television. Harry loves Zayn, but he won’t deny that there are some parts of Zayn that throw him off, so twisted and fragile, and he’s always been that way that Harry doesn’t know when it first started or when he first noticed it. Zayn acts like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but he’s just lost, so deeply lost that he has trouble finding his way back to them.

Louis is starting to see it, too, slowly, but surely. After he found out about Liam, he refused to talk to Zayn for days, and now the latter’s guard is up, even around Harry. It doesn’t help that he told Zayn to let Niall go; Zayn told him to sod off, that he and Ni were just fuck buddies, messing around. Hell, he even said that there wasn’t anything to let go of.

Both of them know that’s not true. Both Zayn and Harry know there’s more to it; proof is sitting on Gemma’s fancy couch, staring down at his silent mobile.

>>>> 

Louis’ dad scares the shit out of Harry Styles. He doesn’t get intimidated easily, has stared down the meanest, toughest men in the juvenile correction centre, men who could lay a hand on him and have his body crumble, but for some reason, Mark Tomlinson makes him sweat. Louis admits he wasn’t Drew’s biggest fan, either, so maybe it’s _not_ because Harry has tattoos and a criminal record. Maybe.

Louis’ sisters are all lovely, perky and shy and sweet, and Lottie has an obvious crush on him, demanding to sit by him during dinner, trying to steal all his attention. Jay Tomlinson doesn’t take to Harry instantly, but she warms up nonetheless, asking all sorts of questions, ignoring his son’s desperate looks. Harry kind of wishes she didn’t like him, too, but he knows she’s just trying to figure him out, like he’s some sort of algebra equation. It’s not the first time he’s been put underneath a microscope lens, but he relents and doesn’t tell her to fuck off for Louis’ sake, so that’s a plus.

It only took Louis a whole month to ask the question; Harry was patiently waiting for it. His dad is gone for the night, something about a business trip, and the girls are at some weekend sleepover camp, so it’s just Jay, Louis, and Harry. Harry’s sitting on one of the stools in Louis’ grand kitchen, watching in amusement as Jay scowls at Louis for his lack of whisking talent. It’s nice, really, relaxing. Comforting, homey.

“So,” Jay starts, “Harry, dear, why is it that you live with your sister, again?”

“Mum, please,” Louis hisses. He looks horrified, cheeks reddening.

Harry looks down at the black cross on his hand and sees Louis freeze out of the corner of his eye. “No,” he clears his throat, “it’s okay.” Louis looks away and turns back to the sauce he’s stirring, and maybe he wants to hear the answer, too. Harry can’t look at them as he speaks, “My dad died in a footy game. The opposing teams where rivals, shi—things went down and guns came out, and he got in the middle of some friendly fire,” he stops the urge to clench to crucifix in his hand, “and my mum took off afterwards.”

It’s quiet then. When Harry looks up, Jay Tomlinson has tears forming in her blue eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers shakily.

Louis’ eyes are red, too, but he clears his throat and keeps stirring.

 

After dinner, they’re supposed to meet up with Zayn to do something or another, Harry’s not too sure. He doesn’t feel up to it, either. He sits on Louis’ big, soft bed, watching the older boy dig through his wardrobe, muttering things to himself and throwing rejects behind him, hitting Harry in the face or landing in his lap.

“I fucking swear I left it right here,” Louis says, irate. “It’s my favourite _Stone Roses_ vest.”

“Hey, Lou? I think I’m just gonna head home, yeah?”

Louis frowns, turning around to face him. “Is this about what Mum said? ‘Cause I’m really sorry, love, I know she’s can be relentless. I’ll tell her to fuck off next time, okay? I’m s—“

“No, Lou, it’s fine, I promise. I just..,” Harry can’t look at him, eyes scanning the whole length of the room. He takes a deep breath, “I don’t feel like going out.”

“We can stay here, then. The girls are out and I told Mum not to bother us for the time being.” He takes in Harry’s face, “Or I could—I could come over if you want?”

It’s quiet. Harry shakes his head no, watching Louis’ face fall and turn away from him. His hand goes up to bite his thumbnail. After another minuet, he drops his hand and turns back. “Don’t shut me out, Harry, please.”

“I’m not,” Harry replies defensively. He sees Louis waver between annoyance and acceptance and regret. He still thinks it’s Jay’s fault, and sure, maybe she shouldn’t have brought it up, but for fuck’s sake, Harry will be eighteen years old soon, he should be able to talk about sentimental shit like that. He should be able to talk about his father’s death and his mother’s abandonment without it making him feel like running for the hills, but he can’t, he just can’t. Why can’t he?

When he goes to wrap his arms around the smaller boy, he notices the tear tracks on his sharp cheeks. _No, no, no_. Did he do this?  “No, Lou,” he says, wiping the wetness from his cheeks with his thumbs, holding Louis’ face gently in his hands.

Louis’ arms are crossed over his chest defiantly. He stays still for a minuet, eyes down at the floor, but then he’s wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and pulling him down to meet their lips together. His dainty hands reach up to pull the beanie from Harry’s messy curls, tugging on them lightly. Louis presses his hips against Harry’s, bodies with no space in between them, and he pulls back to look up, searching.

“Closet, Harry, please, closet,” he whispers in haste.

He should stop him, remind him that his mum is right downstairs, could come in at any second, but he doesn’t. He lets himself be pulled into the closet, a hot chill spreading through his body at the lust in Louis’ eyes that shine palpably. Louis closes the door and in the dark, he can hardly see the outline of his sweet, sharp face, before he’s grabbing him, running his small hands up and down his chest, pushing them underneath his tee.

Louis fumbles with his belt, lips interlocking messily. Harry doesn’t get to touch him, or even take off his shirt, before the older boy is dropping to his knees, pulling both the dark skinny jeans and white pants down to pool at his feet. Harry locks his hands in Louis’ shiny strands instantly, almost thinks on telling him to slow down, but then his pink lips are surrounding him, warm and wet, and he can’t think anymore.

He doesn’t think a lot when he’s surrounded by Louis Tomlinson, the boy taking over each and everyone of his senses. It’s not such a bad thing, he finds out.

 

Before he walks away, he gets the horrible and instant urge to blurt out _I love you_. He doesn’t say it, biting on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He hasn’t said those words to anyone else but Gemma in years, not even Zayn, not anymore. He used to say it a lot to Zayn, his best mate, and a few times to Niall, but it’s not—he just hasn’t anymore. He doesn’t know why, actually.

“I really loved the flowers, Harry, thank you,” Louis smiles.

Harry looks up to the second story window, Louis’ room, where the bouquet of lively mixed-coloured flowers sits happily, soaking up the little that remains of the sunlight. Not one single lily in sight. Harry snaps his eyes away from the flowers, soaking up Louis’ own light, and he smiles.

 

In his car, half an hour away from Louis’ home, he hesitates over the call button on his mobile. He breathes out slowly, stopping at a red light before pressing call. “You going out tonight?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please leave kudos. Comments make my day and inspire me to write faster, so leave something down below! Till next time 


	6. Naive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Many of you might've noticed, but the title of this work has changed! It was originally We're Chasing All Those Stars and is now A Sky Full Of Stars. Please leave which title you prefer down in the comments; I'm still on the fence. 
> 
> The chapter below takes place a few months after the last chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

A Sky Full of Stars

 

>>>> 

 

“I just think,” Mark Tomlinson pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “that you’re not making intelligent decisions, Louis. You know Mum and I care about you, just like the girls, and we want to see you succeed in life.”

Louis lowers his head and pushes the noodles around on the plate, taking small bites whenever he feels someone’s gaze on him. It’s rare that all seven of them are gathered around the dining room table, very rare that his dad is even home for dinner, or even at home at the same time as them. He hardly sees his father outside of the study whenever the man _is_ home. They don’t do _family dinner_ often—Mark is never home, Jay can’t be bothered to mix up anything other than a dry martini, the older girls are at cheer practice or art club or with their friends, and Louis. Well, Louis would rather be anywhere but sat at the table.

He doesn’t feel the same for his parents as he did months ago. He can see the flaws and gaps in his family now, doesn’t feel the closeness he always assumed people have with their families. Maybe those telly shows are wrong, maybe family dinners are just a myth, like fairies. Even _The Simpsons_ do family dinners, and they’ve got to be the most fucked up on television. Louis feels as though he hardly knows his family members anymore, doesn’t recognize his father, with the greying hair or his mother, with the bags underneath her blue eyes.

Mark hasn’t stopped lecturing him since they first sat down to eat ten minuets ago. It’s all about _commitment_ and _obligations_ and _following through_ , so Louis knows his mum told him about not wanting to go to Manchester University anymore, wanting to stay a bit closer to home. He lifts his head up to send Jay a look, who looks back with a bored and an incompletely sorry expression. Great.

He just wants to leave; the Alfredo is dry, the room is too cold, his sisters are awkward and quiet. He wants to yell, and leave the table, and stomp his feet, and roll his eyes, but he can’t. He has to act the way his father expects him to, has to present his case, tell his side of the matter, with calmness and rationality.

Mark finally stops to breathe, pausing, waiting for Louis’ refutation. Louis sighs, big and steady and dramatic, and places his fork on the side of his plate.  “I know this isn’t what we had planned out,” he starts, “I’m aware that I’m not following the plan. Man U is a great uni, but I only ever wanted to go there because of—of Drew.”

Mark’s jaw clenches and Louis winces. His father never was too keen on the boy. Mark never thought Drew to be intellectual or judicious, or frankly, good enough for Louis. He never thought Drew valued Louis for the right reasons. Which, yeah, rightfully so, Louis supposes.

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” he continues. “But I’d like to believe I’ve changed quite a lot in the past few months since our split, and I deserve a change of opinion. I think I’ve got more—more _direction_ , in a way, and I’m a lot more independent than I was before. I’d like to stay here, in the city, for enrolment; see if I still got a chance at acceptance.”

His father leans back in his chair, swirling his glass of wine with one hand. “Lou, you’ve to see things as your Mum and I do. To be blunt, you’re only following another young man on _his_ path.”

Louis doesn’t flinch, even as the admission hits him in the face. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Explain yourself.”

He takes another deep breath, go big or go home. “I’ve spent my whole life doing as others have asked of me. I’m not blaming anyone other than myself for not taking initiative to make my own choices, but. I _need_ that change now, Dad, I need it. It’s like when Rachel moved to the city to live with Monica and said she was a shoe her whole life? I’ve been a shoe my whole life, too. Maybe I want to be a hat now.”

“Who’s Rachel?” Jay looks at him with a puzzled expression. “Love, do you need new clothes?”

From the corner of his eye, Louis sees Lottie hide a grin behind her hand. “No, Mum, I don’t need new clothes, don’t worry. Never mind, as I was saying—I think, no, I _know_ I’m smart and capable, and I know I can excel at whatever school I choose to attend.”

Mark’s lips twitch and he silently drums his fingers on the dark oak wood. After a while, he looks up at Jay, who only nods. Mark smiles and turns back to Louis, nodding. “I’ll make a call, then, Lou,” he says and picks his fork back up.

That’s it then? He can stay?

“You know, Lou,” his father addresses him again during dessert. “You’d make hell of a good lawyer, kid. Something to look into at university, alright?”

Louis gives him a small smile and nods. Compliments from Mark Tomlinson are few and far between, so he knows it’s sincere. After dinner, it’s quiet as Jay and he clean up the kitchen, until she clears her throat.

“I’m happy you’re staying close to home now, boo.”

Louis thinks he is, too.

>>>> 

He’s wrapped around Harry, quietly watching a movie with Gemma and her boybander boyfriend, when his mobile goes off. Louis whines, gets off the couch sluggishly and heads to the kitchen to answer. He’s not surprised it’s Liam calling for him, he’s just a bit shocked that it’s taken this long.  He sounds upset over the line, but Louis can’t gauge the seriousness of the situation—when it comes to Zayn, it’s always best to under react initially. Zayn sometimes, he does—he does _shit_ , he does shit that never makes sense to anyone, and people who aren’t used to dealing with him hardly ever know how to handle him.

“It’s Zayn,” he says over the sound of the telly back in the living room. He meets Harry’s troubled, beautiful eyes before Gemma’s reaching over and pushing her brother off the seat, waving them off. Clearly, he’s not the only one in the know about Zayn’s mischief.

 

They don’t speak on the way to Harry’s car, which isn’t something new, but Harry’s been awful quiet lately. The lad is always hushed, in a sense, but lately... Louis doesn’t know how to bring it up, because _fuck_ , it’s hard enough speaking and communicating about _real_ ­ _-life_ , actual issues, much less some gut-aching feeling Louis can’t put into words. “Hey, Ha—“

“Harry!” someone bellows from across the street. Niall’s waving at them, shrugging his green backpack onto his shoulder with a toothy grin. He waits for a car to pass by before he’s jogging over to them.  “H, Lou, I was just gonna go on over to yours. Where you two goin’, can I get a lift to Lou’s?”

Harry looks down at Louis, tightening their intertwining hands, and rubs at the back of his neck. Niall looks between them with confusion, bright beam quickly dwindling. Louis stares at his dirty, worn grey Vans, and hey, maybe he _does_ need new shoes.

“What’s up?” Niall asks, lilac hair shining against the little sun that peeks out from behind the heavy clouds.

“It’s just, we—we’re going to Zayn’s place, mate.”

“Okay? Can’t you jus’ drop me off after?”

“Uh,” Harry grimaces. “I don’t think so, I—basically—“

“ _Oh_ ,” Niall nods bleakly. “Nah, fuck, I get it, H. He’s with that guy, right?” There’s a long discomfited pause. “Hit me up later, H, I’m gettin’ up t’night. See you around, Lou.”

When Louis glances back up, Niall is already across the street, heavy backpack weighing him down. Harry watches until the lad turns the corner and disappears, before getting into the car. Louis doesn’t need to ask about Niall and Zayn, has a clear view of exactly what’s going on with them, but his next question causes a red tint on his cheeks.

“Haz, what’s ‘getting up’?”

They pull up to a red light, but Harry doesn’t look over at him, jaw tense. Louis wants to run his fingers across the furrow between his eyebrows and make it vanish. “It’s writing, you know, tagging?”

Louis’ heart starts beating faster. “Are you—are you doing that again?” It’s a stupid question, considering his answer is right there on his lover’s smooth face. He has to suppress the odd combination of anger and arousal that runs through him. “How long?”

Harry answers reluctantly. His green eyes meet Louis before they’re turning away again, glued to the road ahead. “A few weeks.”

Louis has to think about that. _A few weeks._ For weeks Harry has been going out in the dead of the night, risking his life, something he’s made clear is incredibly dangerous. He did all that without telling him, he risked his life—Louis’ just tired of feeling naive. He lays his head against the window pane, can’t stand to look at Harry any longer, blood boiling. He’s fucking tired of feeling so raw and, and—a child, of all things.

“Lou, hey, c’mon,” Harry reaches over to touch his hand before has to shift again. “Louis, don’t ge—“

“Can we please talk about this later?”

The more he thinks about it, the more it hurts. The more he thinks about it, Harry acting reckless and stupid, the less he wants to sit in this car next to him. An omission; it’s a lie, and sure, a silent lie, but a lie nonetheless. That’s what Harry did—he lied to Louis and he lied to _Gemma_. His heart sinks in realisation that Zayn might know, too, and didn’t tell him.

Louis’ mobile buzzes to life and it’s Liam again. _Please hurry_ , it reads. His stomach aches, but he’s not sure from which situation.

As they get closer to Zayn’s house, the houses only get larger and the space in between them get lengthier. The streets are wide, with budding trees as canopies. There’s only a silver Merc in the driveway, Liam’s. Zayn’s parents must be out of the city, and maybe Doniya’s gone, too, with the lack of a red BMW coupe in the driveway.

The heavy front door swings open and Liam stands there with a pale, frightened face. His eyebrows are furrowed, thick and worried, and his lips are set to a pout. His footy jersey is crumpled and he only has one sock on.

“Where is he?” Harry almost shouts.

“Upstairs, in his room,” Liam croaks out, stepping out of Harry’s way, who goes running up the stairs. “Something’s up with his parents. Like, they don’t have any gas and Zayn’s Bentley and Doniya and Yaser’s cars were towed away this morning. His mum took the girls back to Bradford with their Nan, but Doniya refused and left.” He sheepishly points to a stack of letters on the small, foyer table.

There’s a brown envelope on top from some law firm and the post underneath are all stamped with red _Final Notice_ and _Urgent_. They’re all unopened. Walking further into the mansion, he notices how unkempt it is; there’s dust covering every surface and the fridge is empty sans beer bottles, and the garden is wild and yellow. Liam trails after him, brown eyes so wide it’s like he’s seeing it all for the first time, too, and Louis wonders how Zayn managed to distract him.

Then again, he doesn’t have to think hard about it.

It strikes Louis then how he hasn’t set foot in this house in over two months. They’ve always hung out here, he and Zayn, because Zayn’s little sisters weren’t as annoying as Louis’, and.  It’s guilt that’s pressing down on his chest; Zayn’s been at his house more than usual lately, how did he not notice?

“Have you seen Yaser?”

“No,” Liam shakes his head. “’ve never even met the man. He’s never here when I come around.”

On the third floor, the French doors of the master suit are shut closed, but Zayn’s are wide open. It’s huge, walls a light blue colour, and there are posters of his favourite rap artists and games and films hung up. He has a couple of his own art pieces up, too, but not the same abounding amount as before.

Zayn is lying down; head nestled on Harry’s chest, as he rubs his back slowly. He’s shirtless, thin and bony, and his hair is flat and inky, falling into his eyes. He has eyeliner smears underneath his eyes. Louis sits down besides them, running a hand through thick, black locks. Zayn only cries harder.

“It’s okay, Z,” Louis whispers, “it’s alright. We’re here, babe, we’re here. Never gonna leave you, okay? We’ve got you.”

“He’s under investigation from the—the medical board,” Zayn stutters minuets later. “He got fired from the branch a year ago.”

This is news to everyone in the room. Harry stills and Liam’s eyes widen. Harry meets Louis’ eyes. “Did you know?” Louis mouths to him. Harry shakes his head no.

Zayn quiets down after a while, sobs resting aside. He picks his head up from Harry’s chest and drops his feet to the ground, wiping his face with his shaky hands. “Fuck”, he says. His eyes are dilated, and there are heavy bags underneath them, and his breath has a hint of alcohol. He gets up to walk to his wardrobe, reaching into a shoebox to pull out a clean, brown bottle. He takes a long pull and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

His long, thin legs are bruised, varying from plum to yellow-green, his tan skin stretches over his bones, and he’s fucked up and tired and bruised, but he’s easily one of the most beautiful people Louis has ever seen, regardless.

Zayn’s eyes travel the length of his room. “Look at all—all of this shit,” his voice is low and rough. “My Bentley—it’s all _shit_. It’s just shit. I would—I would give it all back if I—,” he hiccups and pauses. “He’s not answering his mobile, fuck him, and they just keep showing up and taking more of our shit.” He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around himself, “I need to get outta here, please, get me out of here.”

Liam stands and goes towards him with open arms.

“Li,” he mumbles, “Liam.” Zayn lets himself be wrapped up in thick, strong arms.

Louis stares. He’s never seen his mate so—so _vulnerable_. And with Liam Payne, of all people, who whispers into his ear and holds him tight against his chest.

“Can he stay at your place?” Harry asks under his breath. Louis nods, standing to find a bag to throw Zayn’s things in.  Socks, shoes, a jacket, anything he can find.

Zayn breaks away from the hug, taking another gulp from the brown bottle with daring eyes. Everyone stays silent.

“Here,” Louis says, throwing a pair of black jeans to Liam, who steadies Zayn enough to pull them on. Louis goes to the en-suit toilet in search of a toothbrush, a long line of small, brown prescription bottles catch his eyes. They’re all lined up neatly in a row below a mirror on the sink. Most of them are legitimate, with _Y. Malik, M.D._ , on the label.

“He’s gonna check up on Trish,” Harry calls from behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Trish? Liam said she went with the girls back to Bradford.”

“Yeah, but his mum came back this morning to talk to Yaser. They can’t find him or Doniya.”

 

They lean against the hallway as Zayn timidly knocks on the one of the French doors. “Mum?” There’s no answer, not that any of them were expecting one, and Zayn breathes out heavily as he walks in. There’s a second knock later, somewhere deeper in the room.

“Mum? Mum, ‘m going to stay at Lou’s for a bit.” Another long stretch of silence. “ _Mum,_ ” Zayn cries out wetly.

Louis backs off the wall and goes into the room. It’s chaos inside, clothes thrown over chairs and piled up on the floor, surfaces covered in papers and empty bottles. There are picture frames lying broken on the ground, glass crunching underneath his feet. There is no light except for the one coming from the other side of the bathroom door, a bright crack underneath. It makes him livid; Zayn shouldn’t have to go through any of this, his father’s mistake isn’t his fault, not his upshot.

“Mum, please, just tell me you’re okay,” Zayn pleads on his knees. They both wait in silence until there’s a loud clink of a bottle being put down on the tile floor in the toilet.

Zayn breathes heavily, chest rising up and down in struggle and anger, and he stands, kicking the door with the toe of his foot once. The loud sound echoes throughout the quiet empty and Louis grabs his arm to pull him back, but Zayn turns and wrenches it out of his grasp with sudden strength, pounding on the door with two heavy fists, face pressed up against the white wood.

“Mum! Mum, please! Don’t you even care? Do you even _fucking care_?!”

Despite his palpable fury; Zayn waits for a response, resting his clammy forehead against the door. He’s only met with silence. He kicks the door again, harder the second time, before pushing off of it, and brushing past Louis with tears. Louis follows silently, shutting the door behind him.

>>>> 

Zayn is curled up underneath piles of blankets on Louis’ bed, but he doesn’t make a noise of protest when the shorter lad pulls him off and sends him to the bath. There, Zayn strips down to his pants and steps in the claw-foot tub, sitting with his chin on his knees, arms wrapped protectively over his legs. Louis lets the bath fill with hot water before loading it up with soothing vanilla bubbles, until the bubbles threaten to spill over.

“Aren’t you comin’ in?”

Louis shrugs out of his jeans and tee wordlessly, climbing in and mirroring his position. There’s something comforting about this, about the bubbles and the warm water. It’s familiar, but they haven’t done it since they were fourteen. It’s intimate but amiable; they’ve always done it, always faced each other like this.

Bubbles pop in his ear and in front of his face as they stare at one another. They’re so different, but so equal at the same time. It doesn’t make much sense, their friendship, but it’s always worked. Louis wishes he had the words to tell him that everything will be okay, that everything will work out, but one point of their friendship is that they never lie to each other. Satirical, in a way, considering how things have been between the two of them lately.

“Liam?”

Zayn ducks his head. “I know,” he says, almost with guilt, like he’s admitting to a petty crime.

“It’s for real then, mate? It’s serious?”

“I-I just hope he likes me after all this.”

That makes Louis smile. “Don’t be a twat, you know he will. Li’s one of the best lads I’ve ever known.”

Zayn laughs, eyes squinty, wiping the wetness from his face with a hand filled with bubbles. “That’s true.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says with repentance. “I should’ve known something was wrong, I—I should have been there. I should have tried harder.”

Zayn’s eyes meet his again. “I should’ve told you,” he says earnestly.

Louis asks, “What does it feel like?”

“It feels like...,” Zayn sighs, resting his chin on his bony knees. “Like, flat champagne. Going to a long-awaited concert only to find out the lead singer can’t sing live. Like smoking a stem in a joint.”

Louis knows exactly what he means. He just wishes he had been there for him. They’re supposed to be brothers, but he didn’t even know what was happening.

It’s Zayn’s turn to frown. “Are you and H fighting?”

It doesn’t surprise Louis that he and Harry’s awkward goodbye at the door—no kiss, no hug, no nothing—didn’t escape Zayn. It felt like the old days, that goodbye. It felt awful.

“Not really, no.” Everything going on between Harry and him—whatever it may be—feels horrifically insignificant compared to Zayn’s situation. “I don’t know, to be honest. I never know with him.”

“Bro, just tell me, alright? Distract me.”

He looks so upset that Louis wastes no time divulging in his problems with Harry. He tells him everything about the last few months together, about their conversation on the drive to his house. Zayn didn’t know about the graffiti, which both calms and worries Louis.

“What they do shouldn’t be illegal,” Zayn says after a short time of noiseless thinking.

“But it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be.”

“But it _is_ ,” Louis stresses. “It is illegal, and what if he ends up back in jail? He’s eighteen now, Z, it’s serious. What if they lock him up, what then?”

His mate shrugs. “He’s smarter than that. You’ve got to give him some credit.”

Louis severely doubts that, but that isn’t the point. “I’m sick of it,” he blurts out. “I’m sick of feeling like, like he has this whole other life that I can’t understand because I’m—I’m sheltered, or because my family has money, or because I haven’t done enough, or seen enough, or fucking lived enough. It’s not like I can help that, right? It would be different, so different, if he had done it and moved on and it was all in the past, but he’s _still_ doing it, _still_ doing all these things and lying to me. He’s—he’s two different people, and I’m only allowed to know one of them.”

He takes a deep breath, watching as the bubbles shine against the bright lights above before they pop. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

Zayn swirls the bubbles around with one finger, inky black hair falling in front of one eye. “Maybe you should ask him to take you out with him.”

Louis’ laugh is sudden and dry. “Like he would agree to that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’ve got him by the balls, Lou.”

“You’ve got Liam by the balls, too.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “He wears the pants.”

“Z,” Louis laughs, “there has never been a relationship where you don’t wear the pants.”

He doesn’t answer and Louis isn’t expecting one. They won’t be discussing that today, it’s too late and they’re both tired. “Here, turn around. I’ll wash your hair.”  He does just that, setting back in between Louis legs. Louis washes and conditions, running his hands through his friend’s thick hair and sometime between the shampoo and conditioner, Zayn start to cry again, mumbling about his father and his mum and his sisters.

Louis quickly washes the product out and hugs the thin boy from behind, wrapping his arms around his body, keeping him together.

They don’t stay up late; they don’t drink or get high or cry again. They fall asleep with wet hair and flannel pyjamas.

>>>> 

By next morning, Mark and Jay already know what’s going on and quickly agree to let Zayn stay for as long as he needs. Mark doesn’t look too surprised; Mark and Yaser probably have the same golfing buddies... Zayn’s parents and Louis’ aren’t necessarily friends; they don’t run in the same social circles, either.

When Louis grudgingly makes his way back up the stairs and into his bedroom, Zayn is still asleep, mouth open. Louis sends a group text to Harry and Liam, asking them to meet up at the small café place near Harry’s for coffee and baguettes later.

Only Harry replies with a _we’ll met you there in an hour_. We? Who the hell is we? Louis flops back onto the bed, moving Zayn’s arm, and pestering him until he wakes. He moves over until they’re sharing a pillow and shows him the text.

“We?” Zayn squints at the screen and groans. “So fucking weird.” He looks a lot better today, at least. His golden eyes aren’t dilated or distant, and the circles under them aren’t as dark.

“Hey, Z?”

Zayn rubs at his eyes with closed fists and frowns. “What.” He’s not much a morning person.

“Today? How about you, uh, stay sober today?”

He stops rubbing at his eyes, leaving them pink. “Sure,” he agrees reluctantly moments later. “Sure.”

Louis beams, pulling him into a hug as he grumbles and moans, but hugs back nonetheless.

>>>> 

Sure enough, Harry and Liam walk into the café together. Louis eyes them over the brim of his big, polka-dotted mug, curved eyebrows raised. The both look rough, clearly hung over, with bleary eyes, Liam growing a beard, and Harry whatever he calls the things that pop up on his upper lip. Harry tastes minty, like toothpaste, with a hint of hidden whiskey.

“Are you hungover?” Louis asks, watching as Liam greets Zayn with a smile and a chaste kiss on the lips. They both laugh as Liam slumps over the table, face resting in his hands.

“Nope,” Harry says, expression different, open and carefree, “still drunk.”

“So, what,” Zayn deadpans, “are you two, like, mates now?”

Both boys turn to each other, frowning, but then Liam reaches over the table and smacks down the brim of Harry’s snapback, and Harry punches him lightly on the arm. Zayn and Louis watch, eyebrows furrowed and rose, because, well. It’s strange.

“Yep,” Louis confirms, “still drunk.”

“It’s an unholy union,” Zayn says.

“So fucking weird,” Louis repeats his words from earlier in the day with a smile.

He forgets to be angry with Harry when the younger boy takes his hand in his grip, swinging their arms back and forth as they walk back to Harry’s flat. The weirdness from yesterday is gone, simply replaced with dimply smiles and happy greens.

 

Once inside the flat, he watches as Zayn takes on a new persona, watches as he runs his fingers through Liam’s growing hair, smiling down at him. Once again, he and Harry try not to stare at the couple, watching as they take care of one another through secret smiles and content eyes, but it’s hard. Zayn doesn’t take a beer from the fridge and they don’t see him pop a pill. The dark-haired boy gazes at Liam with so much affection in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking.

 

Everyone falls asleep, hours later, except for Louis. He relaxes in the quiet atmosphere, mind reeling over everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours. There’s a blank canvas propped up on an easel in the corner of the room that he can’t look away from, put there by a hopeful Gemma, and the sight alone should make him furious, but it doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to care right now, instead he leans down and presses kiss to Harry’s lips and puts his head on his warm chest, Harry’s hand coming up to automatically settling on the low of Louis’ back.

 

Louis wakes up, hours later, to a buzzing in his ear. It’s dark outside and the telly has gone blue. Harry pulls out his mobile out from his back pocket and stares at the screen, a happy picture of a smiling Niall covers it. Harry doesn’t move—he doesn’t silence it or send it to voicemail, just watches it ring continually.

Zayn and Liam are still asleep on the other couch, Liam’s heavy arm over Zayn’s small waist.

 _You have one missed call_.

Harry looks at him, guilt on his face plainly. They both know they’re going to have to deal with this soon. Not just this—but _everything_.

Prom is in a week and graduation is a month away. Things that once seemed so far in the distance are now suddenly looming over head like dark clouds ready to release a rainstorm. Louis can’t figure out why he thought something as petty as prom was so important once. Harry even asked if he wanted to go and he surprised them both by telling the truth: no.

To Louis, it feels as though this chapter in his life has already been written and he’s simply biding time to get to the next one. He just hopes whatever comes next is good and worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your thoughs/ideas down below, I love hearing them. Please leave kudos if you enjoyed this chapter and would like to see more. Until next time :)


	7. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and feedback, it means so much to me! There's going to be a lot of drama after this chapter. That should be fun ;)

We’re Chasing All Those Stars

>>>>

 

 

“What’s in the bag, Harry?”

Harry freezes mid-step. He stops, taking a deep breath, before slowly turning to face Gemma. His sister is sitting on their kitchen counter, blue hair a messy halo around her tired face, in the dark. She fucking knows, of course she knows. She knows exactly what’s in his backpack.

He’s a coward—he can’t look at her. He doesn’t want to see what’s blatantly written on her face. She slides of the counter and comes to stand in front of him, hands resting defiantly on her hips, half her face in shadows, the other half illuminated by the street lights outside. His sister— older than him, shorter than him, and freakishly strong— grabs his chin forcibly and meets his eyes.

“What are you doing, Harry?” She asks quietly into the dark. The question almost throttles him, strong and dedicated, and it spans space and time and light years. It’s ten questions in one. Gemma looks frightened and furious, Gemma looks like their dad like never before.

Harry’s first instinct is to push her away, so he does, but with gentleness he can’t, and certainly won’t, explain. Gemma’s glaring up at him with big, scary eyes, and a small part of him wants to say _fuck it_ , throw his bag on the floor, pop a film in, and cuddle up with her. And apologise, mostly. He does none of that, however, brushes past her to go out the large industrial door, not looking at her surely crestfallen face as he passes.

Once outside, the door clicks shut behind him. The lock snaps shut as he stands on the steps underneath unattractive, yellow incandescent lights in the cool night. The nights are getting warmer, at least much warmer than in the dead winter, but it’s still England and it’s only Spring, so his black pullover will do.

Gemma’s words are redundant in his mind: What are you doing? God, what _is_ he doing? He stops in the middle of the sidewalk; he’s not that far away from the flat, he can still turn around and make some popcorn and watch a comedy. The need to write, the way his fingers twitch and his chest tightens—the need to write is much stronger.

Besides, he and Niall have plans. There’s a live train yard they’ve been researching and tonight’s the perfect night to attack it. There are still a few hours before the night guards start their jobs and if he and Niall hit the right one, Harry knows it’ll run through the city tomorrow morning. Luckily for them, the guard who has the night shift is a lazy twat and usually takes his nap around the same time.

 Maybe the city doesn’t care as much as it did before or the funds aren’t coming in, but over time security has gotten incredibly lax. There are massive holds in the fencing and some of the bricks on the walls have fallen down, making it easier and lower to jump over them and the security cameras are all but broken. Harry’s positive they’ll get away with it, but it’s still risky business.

It’s been almost two years since Harry’s last piece. Most people say he fell off—that he got scared to do the big shit, that he only settles for throw ups and tags because he’s a coward, because he doesn’t have the balls do it right, a top to bottom. It doesn’t help that Nick and his cronies bomb everything of his, either. His body buzzes angrily at the reminder of Nick’s shitty tag over his fresh piece from last week. Keying his car is one thing, sure, but calling him things like a _toy_ is something else altogether.

He makes a sharp turn into an alley; his dark pullover and dark burgundy beanie feel like an invisibility cloak to him. He feels a sigh of relieve leave his body knowing that Niall and his now-pink hair is waiting for him a few blocks over. Until Louis pops into his mind again, that is.

Everything is fucked up and it’s his fault—all of it, completely, his fault. Zayn called him, cursing at him with his thick accent, yelling at him because how _could you be doing that again_? And _why did you lie to Louis like that?_ And, of course, _do you know what you’re doing to Gemma? Harry, do you understand how much of a twat this makes you?_ Yes, he understands.

One would think Zayn Malik has enough going on, but no, he still makes the time to pick up his mobile and yell profanities at him and call him every name in the book. He doesn’t judge Harry, though, that’s one thing he appreciates. Zayn doesn’t judge him or look down on him for writing again, that’s not what he does. His best mate just told him to get shit together if he wants Louis to stick around. God, Harry really, _really_ wants Louis to stick around.

He convinced Louis to meet him in a few hours, when the sun is up and the sky is blazing orange hues. Things aren’t good right now, between them, and he needs to make it better. He needs to try and make Louis understand.

Niall, on the other hand, is going to go mad when he finds out Harry doesn’t want him at the bench. The bench is where all the writers meet up; it’s the perfect spot between the two main train lines. Usually, Harry’d like everyone to be there, from the rookies to the old-timers, but he just wants Louis there today, just Louis to see his piece.

Niall’s waiting for him at their destined corner, dressed in all black from head to toe and a smile that shines with the moon. They don’t talk much on their way, something that Harry’s thankful for. There’s something so relaxing about Niall in the early hours, when he’s sleepy and rosy-cheeked, body humming with excitement.

He’s had a full week to deal with the fact that Zayn is now officially with Liam, and Harry’s just thankful Zayn told him himself, Harry did not want to be a part of that. He’s had to talk about it way too much for his liking. Niall’s bothered that he doesn’t hate Liam, but Harry finds it hard to dislike the lad—Liam has helped out Zayn so much, especially these last few weeks with the drama with Zayn’s parents, so how could Harry not like him because of that? He’s tried, at least.

A siren blares in the distance, and the pair jump. Once he gets there with a can steady in his hand, Harry knows he won’t be nervous in the slightest. For now, the plan is a mantra in his head, and he just tries to keep his thoughts off of the cops and handcuffs and jail time.

He thinks about Louis, instead. He thinks about how sweet his skin taste and the way it feels like silk under the rough pads of his fingers. He thinks about drawing him, how he would shade his hips and the curve of his waist, how he would sculpt his high cheekbones and round his brows. He thinks about what he’s going to tell Louis once the lad gets to the bench in a few hours, how he’s going to try and make him understand; he tries not to focus on what his reaction might be. He focuses on what words he’ll use, because that will be hard enough by itself.

 They’re a street over, and he’s ready. He pulls out his favourite printed scarf, a print of the American flag, and ties it around the lower part of his face, securing his identity. It looks a bit silly, with his dark outfit and the bright red, white, and blue. Niall does the same, pulling out a simple, red bandana that they both know once belonged to Zayn, and follows him down the street, heads tucked low in case of a passing car; which, at this time of the night, is not likely.

>>>> 

The yard always has a certain scent to it. The smell makes him focus; it’s tinny, electric, a bit like copper, a bit like blood, and he loves it. They move down the lines until they get to the car they want, one that is second on track, so it’ll pull out early and leave before anyone can do anything about the work that’ll be on it. The camera in the corner is busted, red blinking light gone blank, and Harry notes the night security is on the other end of the fence. They stand still for seconds, staring at the car; it’s new, which doesn’t happen to often, which means that the piece won’t last too long.

“It’s so fucking clean,” Niall says in awe, running a hand over the smooth surface. “Fuck.”

Harry pulls out the sketch, handing it over to his mate—he doesn’t need to look over it, has worked on it for days, perfected every last detail until it’s branded on the side of his brain. They pull out their cans and the caps, and he starts on the outline, left to right. Niall does the fill-ins so they can work faster, something that they have been doing for years, moving around each other with ease.

Niall is one of the reasons Harry’s doing this again. Niall understood when Harry put the can down, knew that his probation was harsh, and didn’t want him back in another juvenile detention centre.  With that being said, Harry knows Niall questioned why he didn’t want to go back out after juvie was over—writing isn’t something people stop doing willingly, most put up a fight, try to rid the itchiness from their blood and can't; its a mere addiction, rooted with territory and defiance.  Niall’s cool with murals and legal walls, but only as a compliment to the streets, something many people agree with.

The only sound in the quiet darkness is the hiss of the tip, the sweet woosh of the paint on the walls, and the clanking of the mixer. They don’t need words to do what they do. Niall will stop them a few times throughout the process, hold up a hand and listen intently for any footsteps, but no one comes. The piece is done: it’s filled, it’s shaded nicely, and Harry’s putting his signature in the right bottom corner, when the motion sensor floodlight snaps on, blinding them for a few seconds after hours of standing in the dark. The night guard is making his rounds.

Niall has already packed the paint and Harry picks up his black backpack as quietly and carefully as possible; one clank of a can against another and they’re in shit. The rest of the city is still asleep, dreaming in silence.

They walk on the rails that run in between the rows. There’s a loud scuffing of shoes on the concrete and they both still, waiting for the night security to pass. Harry doesn’t breathe. When the footsteps recede, they continue on their way towards the back of the yard, from where they came in. They’re almost out of the small hole in the fence when they hear it.

“Fuck! God _damn_ it, these punk ass kids!”

Harry knows Niall is grinning underneath his bandana, biting back his original cackle. Harry can’t find it in him to smile.

The sun rises as they walk, turning the sky into soft shades of violets, then reds, and then loud oranges. They laugh, replaying every moment of their night, high from getting away, adrenaline pumping.  They stop at the café and although their bare hands aren’t stained thanks to their gloves now hidden in the depths of their bags, the barista eyes the errant splotches of colour on his black pullover. The girl with wildly coloured yellow hair bites her lip, eyeing them both, and Harry stifles a laugh.

Niall swallows down two scones and a Red Bull before Harry’s even done paying for his own food, and they head out. Outside, he starts heading towards his car meet Louis, but Niall still follows.

“Mate, ‘m going to meet Louis at the bench today. Just Louis.”

Niall laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, cheeks reddening and eyes tearing up. “What even? Dude, everyone’s gonna be there for this.”

Harry stops, hand on the door. “Ni, really, why—who did you tell?”

“Are you fucking with me, H? Sabaism does a real work, from top t’ bottom—people want to see this shit live.”

“Damn it.”

Niall sobers up quickly. “Mate, listen. I know you’re into this dude, obviously—,” he gestures to the dry paint on the sleeves of his sweatshirt, “—but since when don’t ya want a crowd at the bench? Like, you don’t want the crew there anymore?”

“Niall, it’s not like that, I promise,” Harry swears with wide eyes. “It’s not like—“

“No, it _is_ like that, though. Mate, you’re different now.”

Harry can hear the pain behind his words. He feels left behind, Niall does, by Zayn, and now Harry, too. The way he’s looking at him makes him squirm unpleasantly, so he turns away from those sad baby blues and gets in the car. Niall jumps into the passenger seat and turns the radio up loud and Harry fights a smile—no matter how angry he is, Niall will never pass up a ride.

When they get to the park, the sun is up over the horizon and the sky has settled for a nice, light blue. Louis’ not there yet and he doesn’t respond when Harry texts him. They’ve got ten minuets.  A bunch of guys are already there, including his crew. He recognizes most of them, except for a few young, fresh faces. Two of the ‘Kings’ are there; men who have been writing since Harry was roaming around in nappies.

“What are you going by?”Jeff, one of the oldest and greatest, asks, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

“It’s still Sabaism,” Harry replies. He nods towards the empty train tracks, “But this piece that’s coming; that one’s _Louis_.”

Jeff nods. “I’ve seen this new shit that you’re doing, mate. It’s sick.”

“Thanks bro,” Harry smiles. Coming from Jeff, that’s a hell of a compliment. “I like that piece you did on Whi—“

He doesn’t see Louis, but hears it loud and clear when Niall catcalls him, his Irish accent echoing throughout the park. Their eyes meet and Niall beams bright and white, and it’s always been that easy. Niall gets it, he understands him; there’s never bad blood between the two of them. The blond gets over shit fast, easy-going and quick like lightning.

“Louis, huh?” Jeff smiles, following Harry’s gaze. He shrugs sheepishly, but the older lad just punches him on the shoulder, laughing.

Louis waves, dressed down in a simple tee and his usual black skinny jeans, from across the park, and Harry meets him halfway. He smiles sleepily, eyes puffy. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got something to show you.”  They walk over to the bench with their sides pressed together, where someone is passing a joint around and others have their books out, showing off their new designs. The crew looks at Louis with suspicion until Harry introduces him, nodding approvingly.

“Oi! Shit, there it is!” Niall yells thickly, pointing and hopping on his feet before he remembers the video recording on the iPhone in his hands.

Everyone stands, shuffling closer to the edge of the hill to get a better look, getting worked up and shouting when it finally comes into view. Hands clap him heavily on the back and his mates yell out their praises, but all Harry can do is watch him. Harry misses most of it, thankful that Niall’s getting it on video, because he’s too busy looking at Louis and his reaction. Louis squints and then his eyes widen comically before his jaw drops. There’s a good forty seconds of the clear view, and Louis doesn’t take his eyes off the train until it disappears.

Neither of them notices when the crew moves away, and all Harry can see is Louis, and how Louis’ hair is streaked with gold and his cheeks are rose, and his skin is golden. He wants to tell him he loves him, wants to pick him up in his arms and never let go, and wants to press dozens upon dozens of kisses to his warm skin. The only problem is that they’re standing with a group of twenty or less guys who—who expect Harry to be the kind of lad that doesn’t notice Louis’ hair streaked with gold.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” Harry says and Louis nods, smiling, lacing their fingers together.

<<<< 

They ditch college, which is surprisingly Louis’ idea, and he picks where they go, which is how they end up at the caves by the river. Harry groans when they get there, but Louis only smiles slightly and tells him he wants to show him something, too. The caves are where some idiots—Drew’s ‘squad’—throw parties on the weekends, hence beer cans littered on the ground, massive amounts of cigarette butts, dirty condoms, and broken glass. There’s even some sort of markings in spray paint on the limestone—Harry refuses to call that proper graffiti.

Louis look around as he walks, eyes lingering on a spot in the hallow darkness. Harry doesn’t ask, positive he doesn’t want to _know_. There’s something about the dark space that sends caterpillars running down his spine, and hell, he’s navigated the pure black that belongs to tube tunnels all by himself. It feels as though he’s being watched, like he’s just invaded a home that belongs to ghosts—the kind of ghosts that haunt you because they were apart of something you never were.

Louis finds his hand, and Harry lets his thoughts fade out. He’s with Louis, what more can he ask for? He doesn’t need to feel that way anymore. It feels as though they’re walking in a labyrinth, but he trusts Louis, more than anything or anyone, so he doesn’t ask why he’s being brought here or where exactly they’re going.

“Watch your head,” Louis says, pointing up towards a low opening before leading him in.

Harry has to squint to let his eyes adjust as they go out into the light, and then all he sees is the huge boulder they’re standing on out of the side of the cliff and over the river. It’s solid, marble white and grey, different than the cave. Its’ smooth surface is covered with markings—thousands of initials, hearts, plus signs, quotes in colourful spray paint and Sharpie markers. The further out on the edge, the more sparse the markings get.

“Lover’s rock,” Louis speaks up, his eyes on him. “Shittiest name, but Zayn and I always loved to come out here. We’d try to guess whose initials where whose. And I mean, the view—the view is breathtaking.” He smiles and goes to sit down, leaning against the rock.

Harry sits next to him, marvelling at the view of the river and then the city behind it. It’s so much different than what he’s used to; his life is all concrete and metal. He sometimes forgets there’s more to their city. The leaves rustle with the slight summer breeze and the birds chirp and Louis is warm next to him. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Louis shifts next to him, but keeps quiet. “I—I should’ve told you what I was doing, I shouldn’t have kept that from you. It’s not fair to you, you deserve better than that.”

“I do,” Louis agrees quietly.

He doesn’t mean to say it, no matter how much he _wants_ to say it. His brain to mouth filter isn’t connecting and it just slips out, but it doesn’t quite matter anymore. His words are pressed together, one long syllable. “Iloveyou.”

It’s silent. After a whole minuet, Harry finds his balls and opens up his eyes. The trees in the distance are swaying gently and the sun is high up, the perfect summer day. Finally, when he looks at him, he’s sitting with his head bowed back against the large rock, a small smile playing at his lips. “Louis?”

His head snaps back up and his eyes open quickly, blue like the sky above. His smile widens, becoming one big, expressive grin. “I’m sorry, I, uh. I just like the way that sounds.” His fingers run smoothly over the panels of Harry’s face, and his smile drops. “I love you, too, Harry. Love you, love you, _love_ you. The train—it was so perfect,” he hesitates, “but it scares the hell out of me.”

“I—?” Harry wants to reassure him, promise him that nothing will ever happen to him, that he’s safe, that it’s not dangerous, that _this_ and that _that_. But he’d be lying, and that’s the last thing he wants to do—he never wants to lie to Louis, never again, never wants to hold something back. Louis _does_ deserve better, they both know it.

“And Gemma,” Louis continues. “What about Gemma?”

Harry flinches. His Achilles heel, of course. “She knows about it, about everything.”

“She’s okay with it?”

He has to push back the anger edging into his words, but some of it slips out anyway, “Of course she’s fucking not.”

Louis presses his lips together and turns his head so that his face isn’t visible to Harry. He’s noticed that, Louis always does that when he’s angry or uncomfortable. Louis’ hands twitch, and he’s quiet before he stands up and walks over to the edge of the cliff. Harry stands on instant, heart pounding, because the water is so, _so_ far down below and Louis’ toes are right on the edge.

“When Drew and I were still together,” Louis starts and Harry can’t help the way he stiffens and his jaw clenches. “Zayn and I used to come up here all the time and he would stand right on the ledge,” he throws his arms wide open, “and he would just _scream_.” After a moment he relaxes his arms, dropping them to his side. “I hated it—I only ever wanted him to stop it, just stop yelling.”

Louis turns to face him. “But you— _fuck_ , Harry, you just make me want to scream. I have never met anyone who confuses me as much as you do. It’s like, sometimes, I’m walking on eggshells with you, just waiting for them to take you away, for the fallout. Hell,” he laughs, “that was before I knew you were writing again.”

Louis stops laughing and his eyes glimmer as he looks back up at Harry. “I love you, Haz. So none of that matters, because I love you, and I’m not going to Man U anymore. I’m staying right here, so you better fucking love me back, too, you wanker.”

If Harry could—if Harry could cry, he would. Instead, he nearly leaps to him, putting his hands anywhere he can reach, his lips everywhere like he wanted to hours ago. As Louis starts undoing his belt, he thinks of taking him somewhere, somewhere they can do this properly. They have no lube or condoms, but Louis is kissing him fiercely, adamant. Louis unbuttons his jeans and Harry slides them over his hips, pausing to palm his arse, pulling Louis to him.

Louis is staying, that’s the thing. Louis is staying, here in Doncaster, for _Harry_.

Louis moans and kicks off his shoes with his jeans. He grabs Harry’s length through his pants. “Thighs, Harry. My—fuck my thighs.” He turns around and props his bum in the air, waiting.

Harry pulls down his pants, dick slapping against his stomach. He licks his hand and pulls at himself. It’s so fast. Everything happens so fast, but he’s been waiting forever for this boy. “I love you,” he stammers out, thrusting frantically against Louis’ thick thighs. Louis whispers it back and tightens the grip in his thighs, working himself fast until he comes minuets later. He falls onto his chest when Harry comes, too, streams of white hitting the back of his legs.

Afterwards, they sit on the rock, and Louis stretches his toned legs in the sun. In a few weeks, Louis will be darker and Harry will only start to brown underneath the constant sun. In Autumn, Harry will start university—something he owes completely to Gemma, guilt twisting in his stomach—thanks to grants and loans and bullshit essays.

But most importantly, in a few weeks, Louis will still be here. They’ve got all summer to do whatever the hell they please. There’s nothing quite like summer in the city, and Louis has never stayed during it; always off in Spain or France or Greece, wherever. The smaller boy brings his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them, and he smiles widely at Harry.

Harry wishes he could stop time, just freeze it all, stay like this, with his favourite boy, forever. He’s never felt so free, never.

 

 


End file.
